Wasn’t it about enough? I thought.
“Yes, sir.”
I staggered back to my seat like a wounded man after a fray. I knew I had lost caste with the fellows; I had seriously compromised myself with the head master. At least, I told myself, I had escaped the desperate fate of saying anything against the Dux. For the sake of that, I could afford to put up with the other two consequences.
The grand inquest came to an end. One candid youth admitted that all he knew of the matter was that he was very glad Hector was dead, and for this impious irrelevance he was ordered to write an appalling imposition and forfeit several half-holidays. But that, for the time being, was the worst thunderbolt that fell from the doctor’s armoury.
The Dux was kindly waiting for me outside. If he was grateful to me he concealed his feelings wonderfully; for he seized me by the coat collar and invited me to step with him to a quiet retreat where he administered the soundest thrashing I had had that term without interruption.
Explanation, I knew, would be of no avail. Tempest made a point of always postponing an explanation till after the deed was done.
When at length I gathered myself together, and inquired as pleasantly as I could to what special circumstances I was indebted for this painful incident, he replied—
“For being an idiot and a sneak. Get away, or I’ll kick you.”
Brown, whom I presently encountered, put the matter rather more precisely.
“Well,” said he, “you told about as much as you could. How sorry you must have been not to tell more!”