“No, without humbug, I did. I didn’t know it was Crofter, and I told him Tempest thought he was a beast.”
“If Tempest says so, he probably is,” remarked the unemotional Dicky.
“But what’s to become of me? How was I to know?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better go and tell him you were mistaken.”
“I don’t like to. I say, what a downer he’ll have on me! I half wish I was a day boy, after all.”
“It’s a pity you aren’t. We’ve a jolly lot in the Urban Minors; quite a literary lot.”
“Bother the Urban Minors!” said I, looking dismally after the retreating form of Crofter.
“It’ll take you all your time to bother some of them. There’s Flitwick, he’s—”
“Hang Flitwick! Whatever am I to do, Dicky?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to hang Flitwick. Oh, about that fellow Crofter! Oh, it’ll be all right. He’s plenty else to think about.”