“It is a most unfortunate thing for everyone,” said the doctor—“I include myself and you and Mr Railsford. We are called upon to make a sacrifice, and there should be no question about our being willing, all of us, to make it for the good of the school. Good-night, Smedley, good-night.”
Smedley walked back, humming “Cherry Ripe” to himself, and feeling decidedly depressed about things in general.
Chapter Ten.
Arthur puts two and two together.
Sir Digby Oakshott, of Oakshott Park, Baronet, was down on his luck. His heart had been set on saving his house single-handed by a brilliant discovery of the miscreants to whom it owed its present disgrace.
It had been a busy week for him. He had had three or four fights a day with outraged suspects, and had not invariably got the best of them. Besides, in his devotion to the public service his private duties had been neglected, and the pile of impositions had grown with compound interest. Worst of all, his own familiar friend had lifted up his heel against him, and had openly gibed at his efforts. This was “the most unkindest cut of all,” and Sir Digby felt it deeply.
“What’s the use of going on fooling?” said Arthur, one evening, when the tension was becoming acute. “Why can’t you shut up making an ass of yourself?”
“Look here, Arthur, old man,” said the baronet deprecatingly, “I don’t want to be jawed by you. It’s no business of yours.”