“I’m awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger. I know he has a dozen sausages in his cupboard. Come along there. Are you coming, Greenfield?”
And the worthy friends separated for a season.
Meanwhile, Stephen had made his début in the Fourth Junior. He was put to sit at the bottom desk of the class, which happened to be next to the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-snatcher. This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was.
“Horrid young blub-baby!” was his affectionate greeting, “I don’t want you next to me.”
“I can’t help it,” said Stephen. “I was put here.”
“Oh, yes, because you’re such an ignorant young sneak; that’s why.”
“I suppose that’s why you were at the bottom before I came—oh!”
The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the amiable Master Bramble’s inky pen into Stephen’s leg.
“Who was that?” said Mr Rastle, looking up from his desk.
“Now then,” whispered Bramble, “sneak away—tell tales, and get me into a row—I’ll pay you!”