“But you’re out of spirits. It’s odd that I was in dumps and you were in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed. But, I say, you mustn’t get down, you know, or it’ll tell against you at the exam.”
“It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me. All I hope is that you get the scholarship.”
“I mean to try, just like you and Loman.”
And so they went into breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite Stephen’s care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.
It seemed ages before the nine o’clock bell summoned them down to the Fifth Form room.
Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their class-fellows amply served to pass the time till the examination began.
“Well, you fellows,” cried Pembury, as the two entered, “do you feel like winning?”
“Not more than usual,” said Oliver. “How do you feel?”
“Oh, particularly cheerful, for I’ve nothing to do all day, I find. I’m not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the English Literature. Simon’s in for that, you know, so there’s no chance for any one.”
Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.