“Thank you,” said Mark, and could have eaten the word and his tongue into the bargain the moment he had spoken. This was blunder number three, and the worst yet! For so anxious was he to clear himself of the reproach of abasing himself before his head boys, that his next inquiries were made brusquely and snappishly.
“And Barnworth?”
“I am, sir.”
“And Stafford?”
“I am, sir.”
“And Felgate?”
“I am, sir.”
That was all over. The master smiled. The boys looked grave.
“Won’t you sit down?” said the former, drawing his own chair up to the hearth and poking the fire.
Ainger and Felgate dropped into two seats, and Stafford, after a short excursion to a distant corner, deposited himself on another. Barnworth—there being no more chairs in the room—sat as gracefully as he could on the corner of the table.