“Yes, he did, didn’t he, Padger? That time, you know, last term. But I say, Greenfield junior, why ever’s the fight not coming off?”
“Loman won’t fight, that’s why,” said Stephen; and then, having had quite enough of catechising, turned on his heel and left the indignant youngsters to continue their rush back to the Fourth Junior, there to spend an hour or so in denouncing the caddishness of everybody and to make up by their own conflicts for the shortcomings of others.
Oliver meanwhile had settled down as best he could once more to work, and tried to forget all about the afternoon’s adventures. But for a long time they haunted him and disturbed him. Gradually, however, he found himself cooling down under the influence of Greek accents and Roman history.
“After all,” said he to Wraysford, “if the fellow is a coward why need I bother? Only I should have rather liked to thrash him for what he did to Stee.”
“Never mind—thrash him over the Nightingale instead.”
The mention of the Nightingale, however, did not serve to heighten Oliver’s spirits at all.
He turned dejectedly to his books, but soon gave up further study.
“You can go on if you like,” said he to Wraysford. “I can’t. It’s no use. I think I shall go to bed.”
“What! It’s not quite nine yet.”
“Is that all it is? Never mind; good-night, old man. I’m glad it will all be over on Monday.”