“So you fellows,” continued Tony, “may command my services from morning to night if you like.”
“Loman was grinding hard all yesterday,” said Braddy. “I’m afraid he’ll be rather a hot one to beat.”
“But we must beat him, mind, you fellows,” said Ricketts, calmly, comprehending the whole class in his “we.”
“Why, Wray,” said another, “how jolly blue you look! Don’t go and funk it, old man, or it’s all UP.”
“Who’s going to funk it?” said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend’s behalf. “I tell you Wray will most likely win.”
“Well, as long as one of you does,” said Tom Senior, with noble impartiality, “we don’t care which; do we, Braddy?”
“Of course not.”
So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys at all, but for their Form. They might just as well have been two carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon them.
The Doctor’s entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.
The Doctor looked a little uneasy. Doubtless he was impressed, too, by the importance of the occasion. He proceeded to call over the lists of candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner, very unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the class, said: