“I don’t know about that. But it’s not the motto, it’s the grammar.”
I wasn’t quite pleased with Dicky for this. It seemed as if he thought he knew more than other people, which I held to be a reprehensible failing in any one—particularly a day boy. I flattered myself that, as an exhibitioner, he had hardly the right to talk to me about grammar. But it was Dicky’s way, and I knew he couldn’t help it.
For all that, I referred to the subject in the faggery that evening. My comrades were in high glee. Half a dozen subscriptions had come in, with requests to be allowed to join the picnic, and a considerable number of others had asked to be allowed at half price or on the deferred payment system.
“It’s going like anything, Sarah,” said Langrish, thumping me violently on the back.
“Where’s the picnic to be?” I inquired.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the secretary.
I said I would, and, as president, considered I was entitled to the information.
“We’re not as green as we look; are we, you chaps?” said Trimble. “Why, you don’t suppose we’re going to let out and give you a chance of blabbing to the day-boy cads, do you?”
“I’m not any more likely to blab than you are,” said I, warmly.
“All serene. You keep your temper—you’ll know time enough.”