It reminded me of that fearful night at Dangerfield, when Tempest—
I clung on to Langrish, who was next to me, in mute despair, and Langrish in turn embraced Trimble.
“Those,” gasped the voice of Coxhead, “were the—ginger—beer—bottles. What—shall—we—do?”
“Cut to bed sharp!” said the resolute though quavering voice of Warminster, “and lie low.”
“There won’t be much of him left,” whispered Trimble, “that’s one good thing,” as we huddled off our clothes in the dark in the dormitory.
It was a gleam of comfort, certainly. Effigies of that kind, when they do go off, leave few marks of identity behind them.
“Who let it off?” I ventured to ask. “No one knew about it except us.”
“Look out! There’s somebody coming!”
It was Mr Sharpe, who looked in, candle in hand, to see if any one had been disturbed by the noise. But every one was sleeping peacefully, blissfully unconscious that anything had happened.
“Narrow shave that,” said Langrish, when the master had retired.