“Upon my word, though,” said Wales, “I think we’ve a right to get that extra drill of yours wiped out. It stands against you on the register, and it’s a scandal to the house.”
“They seem to think it so,” observed Pridgin, as just then a loud chorus of war-whoops came up from the region of the faggery. “Somebody had better stop that row!”
“Jarman had better come and do it,” said Tempest, laughing. “He’s got charge of the morals of Sharpe’s house now.”
When in due time I returned, somewhat depressed by what I had overheard, to the faggery, I discovered that the particular occasion of the triumphal shout referred to had been a proposal by Langrish to celebrate the approaching Fifth of November by hanging, and, if possible, burning Mr Jarman in effigy, for which purpose an overcoat of mine had already been impounded. I had the greatest difficulty in rescuing it from the hands of the marauders, who represented to me that it was my duty to sacrifice something for the public good.
“Why don’t you let them have your coat, then?” I asked.
“Because,” was the insinuating reply, “it wouldn’t burn as well.”
“You won’t have mine,” I insisted. “But I tell you what; I’ve got an old hat and pair of boots I—I don’t often wear—you can have them.”
A shout of laughter greeted this ingenuous offer—but it saved my top-coat. And when in time my flat-topped pot-hat and tan boots were produced, there was general rejoicing. Each Philosopher present tried them on in turn, and finally I was compelled to wear them, as well as my top-coat, for the rest of the evening, and assist in a full-dress rehearsal of the proposed hanging of the discipline master, in which, greatly to my inconvenience, I was made to personate Mr Jarman.
The following day I was enjoying a little hard-earned solitude, and amusing myself by leaning over the bridge and watching the boats below, when a voice at my side startled me.
“Ah, my polite letter-writer, is that you? The very chap I want.”