The wretched Bateson turned green and began to howl.
“Oh no, please sir! Don’t say that, sir! It will kill me! Please, Mr Railsford!”
Railsford quietly lit a match, and handed it to the boy. Bateson fairly went down on his knees, and grovelled at the master’s feet.
“Oh, Mr Railsford! I’ll promise never to touch one again—I really will if you’ll only let me off. I should die if you made me. Oh, please!”
Railsford blew out the match and told the boy to get up.
“I never did it before,” whimpered Bateson—it was hardly necessary to say that. “I didn’t know it was any harm. Felgate said it would do me good. Please, Mr Railsford, may I put it in the fire? I’ll never touch such a beastly thing again.”
And as Railsford said nothing to prevent it, he flung the origin of his evils into the fire.
“Now go to your room,” said the master. “And don’t be so foolish again.”
Bateson departed, marvelling that he had not been thrashed for his crime, but pretty effectually cured of any ambition to renew his narcotic experiments. Railsford, had he been anyone else but Master of the House, would have enjoyed this little adventure. As it was, he did not like it, for it could scarcely end where it had. He astonished Felgate that evening by a visit to his study.
“Felgate,” said he, “I wish to know your reason for giving Bateson a cigar to smoke.”