Loman was not a favourite even with his own class-fellows, but they could forgive anything now, provided he made sure of the Nightingale.
“He’ll be all right!” said Callonby to Wren one day, when the two happened to hit on the topic of the hour; “he’s a great deal steadier than he was last term.”
“I wish he’d read indoors, then, and not be everlastingly trotting out with his books.”
“Oh! I don’t know; it’s much jollier reading out of doors, if you can do it.”
“As long as he does read. Well, it will be a regular sell if he comes to grief; the Fifth will be intolerable.”
“They’re not far short of that now. Hullo!” This exclamation was provoked by the sight of Loman in the playground under their window. He was returning from one of his studious rambles, with his book under his arm, slowly making for the school.
There was nothing in this to astonish the two boys as they looked down. What did astonish them was that he was walking unsteadily, with a queer, stupid look on his face, utterly unlike anything his schoolfellows had ever seen there before. They watched him cross the playground and enter the school-house. Then Wren said, gravely, “It’s all up with the Nightingale, at that rate.”
“Looks like it,” said the other, and walked away. Loman was returning from one of his now frequent visits to the Cockchafer.