Railsford was alarmed. The boy looked so white, and trembled all over. He stooped down to lift him up; but Bateson blubbered.
“Don’t touch me, please. Oh, I’m dying!” and rolled over, groaning.
It was no time for parleying. Railsford lifted him up in his arms and looked at him. There were beads of perspiration on his face, and a flavour of strong tobacco about his jacket. Bateson had been smoking. The master carried him downstairs and out into the square, where he set him on his feet. The cool air instantly revived the unhappy boy, and what it left undone a short and sharp fit of sickness completed.
“You’re better now,” said Railsford, when this little ceremony was over.
Bateson was fain to admit it.
“How many more cigars have you got about you?” inquired the master, as he stalked with the delinquent at his heels into his room, and closed the door.
The Baby was pale this time with terror, not with tobacco. He tremblingly turned out his trousers pockets, and produced a big cigar of which about a quarter had been consumed.
“That’s all, really, sir,” he faltered.
Railsford took the cigar and sniffed it. In his old college days he would not like to say he had not smoked as good a one himself.
“Very well,” said he, handing it back to the astonished Baby. “Now, Bateson, sit down on that chair. Here are some matches. You must finish this cigar to the end before you leave this room.”