“All right, wait till then. I say, you haven’t seen a lump of turf about, have you? There’s one missing.”
“Ha! ha!” chimed in Dig. “How did you like the writing of the letter? Jolly hand our chaps write in the Shell, don’t they?”
Felgate had not remained to hear these last two genial inquiries, but had returned, storming and raving, to his room.
The only game left him now was revenge. He would be very much surprised if that did not come off a little better than the last!
Arthur and Dig, meanwhile, were by no means in the elated spirits which their successful resistance to the siege might have warranted. Not that they were affected by the bully’s retreating threat; they had heard that sort of thing from one or two fellows in their day, and their bones were still unbroken.
No; what afflicted them, and plunged them into a sea of wrath and misery, was the report circulated that morning and confirmed by reliable testimony, that Marky was going to leave Grandcourt.
At first they could not credit it. But when Ainger himself, with a long face, confirmed it, they were forced to believe their ears.
“Why?” they asked.
But Ainger had nothing to tell them on that score.
They therefore took the bold step of waiting upon the Master of the Shell himself.