“Not a bit of it,” said Bullinger; “it’s yours, isn’t it, Simon?”
“Only part,” said the poet of the “Love-Ballad,” “and I presented that to the paper.”
“Suppose it was mine?” said Oliver, with a drawl.
“Then,” said Loman, losing his temper, “all I can say is, the sooner you clear it away the better.”
“Oh! all right; only it’s not mine.”
“Look here,” said Loman, “I’m not going to fool about with you. You may think it all very funny, but I’ll report it to the Doctor, and then you’ll look foolish.”
“How nice! So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look always,” observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.
At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage outside, confirming the monitor’s complaint. Wraysford walked hastily to the door.
“The next time there’s a row like that outside our door,” called he to the group outside, “we’ll—what do you mean by it, you young blackguard?”
So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily into the class-room.