“Oh!” said Telson, “I’m reported, please, Riddell.”
“What for? Who reported you?” asked Riddell.
“Game—for fighting,” replied Telson.
“He hasn’t told me of it. You’d better come in the morning.”
“Oh! it’s all right,” said Telson. “I was fighting King in the ‘Big’ this afternoon.”
Riddell looked perplexed. This was the first case of a boy voluntarily delivering himself up to justice, and he hardly knew what to do.
However, he had found out thus much by this time—that it didn’t so much matter what he did as long as he did something.
“You know it’s against rules,” said he, as severely as he could, “and it’s not the first time you’ve done it. You must do fifty lines of Virgil, and stop in the house on Monday and Tuesday.”
“All right! Thanks,” said Telson, rapidly departing, and leaving Riddell quite bewildered by the apparent gratitude of his fag.
Telson betook himself quietly to his study and began to write his lines. It was evident from the restless way in which he looked up at every footstep outside he did not expect to remain long undisturbed at this harmless occupation. Nor was he disappointed.