“How much have you written?” demanded the master.
“Two pages, please, sir.”
“This time I will let that do.”
“Thanks, awfully!” broke in Arthur; “you’re a brick! Dig’ll never do it again, will you, Dig?”
“I could do it, you know, if you really wanted,” said Dig, feeling up and down his wounded limb.
“That will do!” said Mark, who had already begun to have a suspicion that he had been “done.” “Clear up this mess, and don’t let me hear any more noise overhead.”
When he had gone, the friends embraced in a gust of jubilation.
“No end of a notion of yours!” said Dig. “That leaves the lines for the doctor and the others for Ainger. He’ll keep. We’ll have him in to tea and dose him with marmalade, and square him up. But, there, I must do the doctor’s lines, or I shall catch it!”
And so, despite his wounded arm, he set to work, aided by his friend, and worked off about half the penalty, by which time his arm and elbow were very sore indeed. Dimsdale, who came in later, was bribed with an invitation to jam breakfast in the morning, to help with the remainder, and the same inducement prevailed upon Tilbury. So that by a fine co-operative effort Dig stood clear with the doctor before night was over, and considered himself entitled to a little rest, which he forthwith proceeded to take.
The breakfast-party next morning was a great success on the whole. It was a little marred by the fact that whereas covers were laid for four, just fourteen guests turned up. This was partly Arthur’s fault, for, having sallied forth with an invitation in his pocket to anyone who would help his friend out with a few lines, he had dropped them about in a good many other quarters. He had secured the attendance of Simson and Maple of the Shell, and of Bateson and Jukes of the Babies, and, with a view to ingratiate himself with some of his neighbours on the first floor, he had bidden to the banquet Wake, Ranger, Wignet, and Sherriff of the Fifth, and actually prevailed upon Stafford to lend the dignity of a Sixth-form patronage to the reunion.