“A fine old building, this,” said the gentleman; “how many houses are there?”
“Eight,” said Ainger.
“And whose do you belong to?”
“Railsford’s. That’s his, behind us.”
“And which is Mr Bickers?”
“This must be the father of one of Bickers’ fellows,” thought Ainger. “That one next to ours,” he replied.
The gentleman looked up at the house in an interested way, and then relapsed into silence and walked gravely with his guide to the doctor’s.
The doctor’s waiting-room was not infrequently tenanted by more than one caller on business at that hour of the morning. For between nine and ten he was at home to masters and prefects and ill-conducted boys; and not a few of the latter knew by painful experience that a good deal of serious business was often crowded into that short space of time.
This morning, however, there was only one occupant when Ainger and the gentleman were ushered in. That occupant was Railsford.
“Why, Ainger,” said the master, scarcely noticing the stranger, “I did not expect you here. What are you come for?”