His face flushed as he replied slowly, “Your fault, Greenfield; how can you ask?”
Oliver gave a short laugh very like contempt, and then turned suddenly on his heel, leaving Wraysford smarting with indignation, and finally convinced that between his old friend and himself there was a gulf which now it would be hard indeed to bridge over.
He returned moodily to the school. Stephen was busy in his study getting tea.
“Hullo, Wray,” he shouted, as the elder boy entered; “don’t you wish it was this time to-morrow? I do, I’m mad to hear the result!”
“Are you?” said Wraysford.
“Yes, and so are you, you old humbug. Noll says he thinks he did pretty well, and that you answered well too. I say, what a joke if it’s a dead heat, and you both get bracketed first.”
“Cut away now,” said Wraysford, as coolly as he could, “and don’t make such a row.”
There was something unusual in his tone which surprised the small boy. He put it down, however, to worry about the examination, and quietly withdrew as commanded.
The next day came at last. Two days ago, in the Fifth Form, at any rate, it would have been uphill work for any master to attempt to conduct morning class in the face of all the eagerness and enthusiasm with which the result of the examinations would have been looked-for. Now, however, there was all the suspense, indeed, but it was the suspense of dread rather than triumph.
“Never mind,” said Ricketts to Pembury, after the two had been talking over the affair for the twentieth time. “Never mind; and there’s just this, Tony, if Wray is only second, it will be a splendid win for the Fifth all the same.”