“Fact is,” continued Pilbury, contemplatively balancing himself on one foot on the corner of the fender, “I’ve half a notion to go in for being steady this term, old man, just for a change.”
As if to suit the action to the word, the fender suddenly capsized under him, and shot him head first into the waistcoat of his friend.
Cusack solemnly restored him to his feet and replied, “Rather a rum start, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said Pilbury, examining his shin to see if it had been grazed by the treacherous fender, “I don’t see what else there is to do. Any chap can fool about. I’m fagged of fooling about; ain’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Cusack, doubtfully. “It’s not such a lark as it used to be, certainly.”
“What do you say to going it steady this term?” asked Pilbury.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘steady.’ If you mean never going out of bounds or using cribs, I’m not game.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that, you know,” said Pilbury. “What I mean is, shutting up rows, and that sort of thing.”
“What can a fellow do?” asked Cusack, dubiously.
“Oh, lots to do, you know,” said Pilbury—“dominoes, you know, or spellicans. I’ve got a box at home.”