“Shut up! didn’t I tell you I don’t want to hear?” said he.
“Oh, all right.”
If he had only vouchsafed to tell me why he disliked Crofter, or if he had given his counsel in a less authoritative way, it would have been different. He would not even let me repeat the friendly remarks Crofter had made about him; and was determined neither to say a good word for the fellow himself, nor let me say one.
The consequence was that our interview ended in my wishing once more I had confined myself to my own quarters and let ill alone.
My companions were not long in discovering that something was on my mind, and in their gentle way tried to cheer me up.
“What’s the row—ear-ache?” demanded Trimble.
“He’s blue because he’s not had lines to-day,” suggested Langrish.
“Perhaps his washerwoman has sent in her bill,” said Coxhead.
“You’ll get kicked out of here, if you look so jolly blue,” said Warminster. “It’s stale enough this term, without having a chap with a face like a boiled fish gaping at you.”
“Look here,” said I, resolved to be candid as far as I dare. “I’m in a jolly mess—”