Wraysford stares after him for a moment, and then slowly goes on his way, breathing hard.
“I wonder,” said Pembury, after a long silence—“I wonder, Wray, if it’s possible we are wrong about that fellow?”
Wraysford says nothing.
“He doesn’t act like a guilty person. Just fancy, Wray,”—and here Tony pulls up short, in a state of perturbation—“just fancy if you and I and the rest have been making fools of ourselves all the term!”
Ah! my Fifth Form heroes, just fancy!
Chapter Thirty.
A new Turn of the Tide.
The three weeks of Christmas holiday darted past only too rapidly for most of the boys at Saint Dominic’s. Holidays have a miserable knack of sliding along. The first few days seem delightfully long. Then, after the first week, the middle all of a sudden becomes painfully near. And the middle once passed, they simply tear, and bolt, and rush pitilessly on to the end, when, lo and behold! your time is up before you well knew it had begun.