This was news to Riddell, and rather astonishing news too.
“To kick me out?” he asked. “What for?”
“Oh, you know,” said Parson. “It’s some bosh about that boat-race affair. Some of the chaps think you are mixed up in it, but of course it’s all a cram. I’ve told them so more than once.”
“It’s all those Parrett’s cads,” said Telson, taking up the matter from a schoolhouse point of view. “They’re riled about the race, and about the cricket-match, and everything else, and try to make out every one’s cheating.”
“Well, some one must have been cheating,” said Parson, a trifle warmly, “when he cut my rudder-lines; and he’s not likely to be one of our fellows—much more likely to be a schoolhouse cad!”
“I’ll fight you, you know, Parson!” put in Telson.
Riddell saw it was time to interfere. The conversation was drifting into an unprofitable channel, from which it would scarcely work its way out unassisted.
What he wanted was to find out whether there was any truth in the explanation which the diary afforded of young Wyndham’s conduct, and he was a long way from that yet.
“Have some more cake, Telson,” said he, by way of changing the subject.
Telson cheerfully accepted the invitation, while Parson, to spare his host the trouble of pressing him to take an apple, helped himself.