He sat and pondered for an hour or more, sometimes fancying he had hit upon the object of his search, and sometimes finding himself quite off the tack. Had Cripps only known what care and diligence was being bestowed on him that afternoon he would assuredly have been highly nattered.
At length he seemed to come to a satisfactory decision, and, naturally exhausted by such severe mental exertion, Loman quitted his study and sought in the playground the fresh air and diversion he so much needed. One of the first boys he met there was Simon. “Hullo, Loman!” said that amiable genius, “would you have believed it?”
“Believed what?” said Loman.
“Oh! you know, I thought you knew, about the Nightingale, you know. I say, how jolly low you came out!”
“Look here! you’d better hold your row!” said Loman, surlily, “unless you want a hiding.”
“Oh; it’s not that, you know. What I meant was about Greenfield senior. Isn’t that a go?”
“What about him? Why can’t you talk like an ordinary person, and not like a howling jackass?”
“Why, you know,” said Simon, off whom all such pretty side compliments as these were wont to roll like water off a duck’s back—“why, you know, about that paper?”
“What paper?” said Loman, impatiently. “The one that was stolen out of the Doctor’s study, you know. Isn’t that a go? But we’re going to hush it up. Honour bright!”
Loman’s face at that moment was anything but encouraging. Somehow, this roundabout way of the poet’s seemed particularly aggravating to him, for he turned quite pale with rage, and, seizing the unhappy bard by the throat, said, with an oath, “What do you mean, you miserable beast? What about the paper?”