“I say,” whispered he to Oliver, who sat in front of him, “I know it’s a mistake: you know I wrote five cantos about the Shar—good too. He’s lost that. I say, had I better tell him?”
Oliver vouchsafing no reply, the unfortunate poet merely replied to the head master’s remarks, “Yes, sir,” and then subsided, more convinced than ever that Saint Dominic’s was not worthy of him.
“The Mathematical Medal—maximum number of marks 80. 1st, Heath, 65; 2nd, Price, 54; 3rd, Roberts, 53. Heath’s answers, I may say, were very good, and the examiners have specially commended him.”
Heath being a Sixth Form man, this information was absolutely without interest to the Fifth, who wondered why the Doctor should put himself out of the way to announce it.
“The Nightingale Scholarship.”
Ah, now! There was a quick stir, and then a deeper silence than ever as the Doctor slowly read out, “The maximum number of marks possible, 120. First, Greenfield, Fifth Form, 112 marks. And I must say I and the examiners are astonished as well as highly gratified with this really brilliant performance. Greenfield, I congratulate you as well as your class-fellows on your success. It does you the very greatest credit!”
A dead silence followed this eulogium. Those who watched Oliver saw his face first glow, then turn pale, as the Doctor spoke. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the paper in the head master’s hand, as if waiting for what was to follow.
The Doctor went on, “Second, Wraysford, Fifth Form, 97 marks, also a creditable performance.”
One or two near Wraysford clapped him warmly on the back, and throughout the class generally there was a show of satisfaction at this result, in strange contrast with the manner in which the announcement of Oliver’s success had been received.
Still, every one was too eager to hear the third and final announcement to disturb the proceedings by any demonstration just now.