It was poor comfort, but the best I could get, and our arrival at our class room cut short further discussion on this most unfortunate incident.
But it weighed on my mind all day. When class was over, I was summoned by my fellow “Philosophers” to come out into the playing fields; I went in fear and trembling, lest I should encounter Crofter. But he was nowhere to be seen.
My companions were evidently hand and glove with most of the juniors in the school, and I was favoured with a bewildering number of introductions, not always of the most gratifying kind.
“What have you got there, Trim? A tame monkey?” asked one gorgeous youth, whose cap bore the badge of Mr Selkirk’s house.
“Not exactly,” said Trimble; “haven’t had time to tame him yet.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sarah. Allow me. Muskett—Sarah Jones; Jones—Silly Muskett. Now you know one another.”
“He’s only fooling about my name,” said I; “it’s Thomas.”
“Oh, is it? Delighted to see you, Sarah Thomas.”
And before I could put him right he was off, and I was led away by my rejoicing comrades.