“I’m afraid they will think so. Is there any other claimant to the study?”
“No; not that I know of.”
“Perhaps they had better remain for the present,” said the master. “But I cannot imagine what the noise is about. Will you see, Ainger, as you go up?”
This was a broad hint that the merry party was at an end, and no one was particularly sorry.
“Wait a second in my room, you fellows,” said Ainger, on the stairs, “while I go and shut up this row.”
The mystery of this disorder was apparent as soon as he opened the door. The double study, measuring fifteen feet by nine, was temporarily converted into a football field. The tables and chairs were piled on one side “in touch”; one goal was formed by the towel-horse, the other drawn in chalk on the door. The ball was a disused pot-hat of the baronet’s, and the combatants were the two owners of the study versus their cronies and fellow “Shell-fish”—Tilbury, of the second eleven, and Dimsdale, the gossip. There had been some very fine play on both sides, and a maul in goal at the towel-horse end, in which the dog had participated, and been for a considerable period mistaken for the ball. Hinc illae lacrymae.
At the moment when Ainger looked in, Herapath’s side had scored 35 goals against their adversaries’ 29. The rules were strict Rugby, and nothing was wanted to complete the sport but an umpire. The captain arrived in the nick of time.
“Offside, Dim!—wasn’t he, Ainger? That’s a place-kick for us! Hang the dog! Get out, Smiley; go and keep goal. See fair play, won’t you, Ainger?”
To this impudent request Ainger replied by impounding the ball. “Stop this row!” he said peremptorily. “Tilbury and Dimsdale, you get out of here, and write fifty lines each for being off your floor after eight.”
“We only came to ask Herapath what Latin we’ve to do this term; and there’s no preparation for to-morrow.”