“He ought to be expelled!” exclaimed Paul.
“All very well,” said Bramble. “Greenfield senior’s cramming too, he’s been in all the afternoon.”
“He’s not cramming, he’s got a headache!” said Stephen.
“Oh, yes, I dare say, don’t you, Padger? Got a headache—that’s a nice excuse for copying out of cribs on a Sunday.”
“He doesn’t use cribs, and I tell you he’s not working!” said Stephen, indignantly.
“Shut up, do you hear, or you’ll get turned out, Potboy!”
This was too much for Stephen, who left the assembly in disgust, after threatening to take an early opportunity on the next day of giving his adversary “one for himself,” a threat which we may as well say at once here he did not fail to carry out with his wonted energy.
The long Sunday ended at last—a Sunday spoiled to many of the boys of Saint Dominic’s by distracting thoughts and cares—a day which many impatiently wished over, and which some wished would never give place to the morrow.
But that morrow came at last, and with it rose Oliver, strengthened and hopeful once more for the trial that lay before him. He was early at Wraysford’s study, whom he found only just out of bed.
“Look alive, old man. What do you say to a dip in the river before breakfast? We’ve got plenty of time, and it will wash off the cobwebs before the exam.”