“Never mind,” said Ainger, as the distant shouts were wafted from the playing-fields into the common room, “it will be our turn to-day week!”
Chapter Thirteen.
A Fly in the Ointment.
Ainger’s prediction that the house was not likely to get much backing-up in its new efforts from Felgate, looked likely enough to be fulfilled. While everyone else was full of athletic and scholastic fervour, he remained listless and even sulky. Some said it was because Ainger had proposed the great scheme, and Felgate disdained to play second riddle even to the captain. Others said it was because he could not win anything even if he tried. Others darkly hinted that he was one of the authors of the house’s present disgrace; and others whispered that there was no love lost between Railsford and his fourth prefect. In this last conjecture the gossips were right. Felgate and the Master of the Shell had not hit it from the first day of their acquaintance; and within the last few days an occurrence had taken place which had brought the two into violent collision.
Railsford on leaving his room one afternoon had been attracted by the noise of groans and weeping at the far end of the passage. Going in the direction of the melancholy sounds, he discovered Bateson, the Baby, with a face as white as a sheet, huddled up all of a heap, the picture of misery and tribulation.
“What is the matter?” inquired the master.
The sufferer did not hear him at first; but on a repetition of the question he looked up and groaned.
“Oh, I’m dying! I’m so ill! Oh, what shall I do?”