“Loman, Sixth Form—” and here the Doctor paused, and knitted his brows.
“Loman, Sixth Form, 70 marks!”
This finally brought down the house. Scarcely was the Doctor’s back turned, when a general clamour rose on every hand. He, good man, set it down to applause of the winners, but every one else knew it meant triumph over the vanquished.
“Bravo, Wray! old man. Hurrah for the Fifth!” shouted Bullinger.
“Ninety-seven to seventy. Splendid, old fellow!” cried another.
“I was certain you’d win,” said another.
“I have not won,” said Wraysford, drily, and evidently not liking these marked congratulations; “I’m second.”
“So you are, I quite forgot,” said Ricketts: then turning to Oliver, he added, mockingly, “Allow me to congratulate you, Greenfield, on your really brilliant success. 112 marks out of 120! You could hardly have done better if you had seen the paper a day or two before the exam! Your class, I assure you, are very proud of you.”
A general sneer of contempt followed this speech, in the midst of which Oliver, after darting one angry glance at the speaker, deliberately quitted the room.
This proceeding greatly irritated the Fifth, who had hoped at least to make their class-fellow smart while they had the opportunity. They greeted his departure now with a general chorus of hissing, and revenged themselves in his absence by making the most of Wraysford.