“Rather rough on us town-boys,” said Redwood, with a laugh.
“I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” said I.
“Ah, well, our fellows have a club of their own,” said he, “although they don’t talk philosophy. By the way, is your Christian name correctly printed?” asked he.
“Oh, no,” said I; “that was Languish’s fault. He says it was a printer’s error, but I’m sure he did it on purpose.”
“It helps to call attention to the club,” said the captain, laughing. “Your lot seems to be fond of its little joke, to judge by the specimens that came to see us off just now.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said I; “they do fool about so—I say, I hope you aren’t in a wax about it.”
He certainly did not look it.
I went up with him to his den, and we had quite a long talk, and somehow without seeming to mean it, he managed to knock a great deal of nonsense out of my head, and incite me to put my back into the work of the term.
“I suppose,” said he, “you mean to back up Tempest now he’s cock of Sharpe’s? You kids can make it pretty hot in a house if you choose.”
“Oh, we’re all backing up Tempest,” said I, “especially now he’s got his colours.”