“Well, here you are,” said Oliver, entering with a friend. “Wray, this is my young brother, just turned up.”
“How are you?” said Wraysford, in a voice which won over Stephen at once; “I heard you were coming. Have you—”
“Oh!” suddenly ejaculated Oliver, lifting up the lid of his teapot. “If that young wretch Paul hasn’t been and made my tea with coal-dust and cold water! I’d like to scrag him! And—upon my word—oh, this is too much!—just look, Wray, how he’s laid the table out! Those Guinea-pigs are beyond all patience. Where is the beggar?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Stephen, starting up, very red in the face, as his brother went to the door; “it wasn’t him. I made the tea. The boy told me to, and I didn’t know the way. I had to guess.”
Oliver and Wraysford both burst out laughing.
“A pretty good guess, too, youngster,” said Wraysford. “When you come and fag for me I’ll give you a few lessons to begin with.”
“Oh! by the way, Wray,” said Oliver, “that’s all knocked on the head. Loman makes out the captain promised him the first new boy that came. I’m awfully sorry.”
“Just like Loman’s cheek. I believe he did it on purpose to spite me or you. I say, Greenfield, I’d kick-up a row about it if I were you.”
“What’s the use, if the captain says so?” answered Oliver. “Besides, Loman’s a monitor, bad luck to him!”
“Loman’s a fellow I don’t take a great fancy to,” said Wraysford. “I wouldn’t care for a young brother of mine to fag to him.”