“I hope you got it back all right,” continued Loman, who felt as if he must say something. “They are such fragile things, you know. I thought I’d just leave it in the bag and not touch it, but send it straight back, for fear it should be damaged.”
There was a queer smile about Mr Cripps’s mouth as he asked, “Then you didn’t have a look at it even?”
“Well, no, I thought I would—I thought I wouldn’t run any risk.”
Loman was amazed at himself. He had suddenly made up his mind to tell one lie, but here they were following one after another, as if he had told nothing but lies all his life! Alas, there was no drawing back either!
“The fact is,” he began again, speaking for the sake of speaking, and not even knowing what he was going to say—“the fact is—” Here the street door opened, and there entered hurriedly a boy whom Loman, to his confusion and consternation, recognised as Simon of the Fifth, the author of the “Love-Ballad.” What could the monitor say for himself to explain his presence in this prohibited house?
“Hullo, Loman, I say, is that you?” remarked Simon.
“Oh, Simon, how are you?” faltered the wretched Loman; “I’ve just popped in to speak to Cripps about a fishing-rod. You’d better not come in; you might get into trouble.”
“Oh, never mind. You won’t tell of me, and I won’t tell of you. Glass of the usual, please, Cripps. I say, Loman, was that the fishing-rod you were switching about out of your window that afternoon three weeks ago?”
Loman turned red and white by turns, and wished the earth would swallow him! And to think of this fellow, the biggest donkey in Saint Dominic’s, blurting out the very thing which of all things he had striven to keep concealed!
Mr Cripps’s mouth worked up into a still more ugly smile.