Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal to begin. The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.
He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers for the various classes.
“Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward.”
Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his paper.
“Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward.”
The three competitors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a paper.
It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat. The effect of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys. Wraysford’s face slightly lengthened, Loman’s grew suddenly aghast, Oliver’s betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Boys for the English Literature prize come forward.”
These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of the clock on the wall.
Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as I do. You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and glaring at the ruthless question in front of you. You know what it is to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list. And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak, never stopping for a moment to give you a chance. And knowing all this, there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular day of ordeal at Saint Dominic’s.