“Was that you, Oakshott, making that row?”
“I was only saying something to Herapath,” replied the innocent; “I’m sure I didn’t make a row.”
“Don’t tell falsehoods. Do fifty lines, and next time you’ll be sent up.”
“That’s a nice lark,” muttered the baronet as the senior retired. “It was you chaps made the row, and I get potted for it. But I say,” added he, as if such a mishap were the most common of incidents, “that isn’t a bad joke, is it? Fancy calling Herapath’s sister—”
“Cave, shut up!” exclaimed Arthur, dealing his friend a ferocious kick under the table; “they’ve got their eyes on us. Don’t play the fool, Dig.”
Railsford was aroused from the pleasant contemplation of this little comedy by a general rising, in the midst of which the doctor, followed by his staff, filed out of the hall into the governor’s room adjoining, which was ordinarily used as a masters’ withdrawing-room. Here Railsford underwent the ordeal of a series of introductions, some of which gave him pleasure, some disappointment, some misgivings, and one at least roused his anger.
“Mr Bickers,” said Dr Ponsford, “let me introduce Mr Railsford. You will be neighbours, and ought to be friends.”
“I am proud to know Mr Railsford,” said Mr Bickers, holding out his hand; “Grandcourt, I am sure, is fortunate.”
Railsford flushed up at the tone in which this greeting was offered; and touching the proffered hand hurriedly, said, with more point than prudence—
“I heard of Mr Bickers from my predecessor, Mr Moss.”