“All very well,” said Tempest dismally; “that’s England’s affair more than mine. If knuckling under to Jarman is a condition, I’m out of it, and Crofter is welcome to it.”
This was all; and it was bad enough. When the summons to assemble in hall came, I went there in a state of dejection, feeling that the fates were all against me, and that the new leaf I hoped for was several pages further on yet.
My fellow-Philosophers, I regret to say, neither shared in nor appreciated my forebodings.
“Look at that ass Sarah, trying to look virtuous,” said Trimble. “Just like him, when there’s a row on.”
“I’m not trying to look virtuous,” said I; “I’m sick of all these rows, though.”
“Pity you aren’t sick when you’re getting us into them, instead of after. You know you’ve been at the bottom of every row there’s been on this term.”
This sweeping statement was not calculated to allay my discomfort.
“Don’t tell lies,” said I.
“No more we are. Who got us into that mess at Camp Hill Bottom? Sarah did. Who landed us in the row about Jarman’s guy? Old Sarah. Who played the fool with that barge and got us all licked? Cad Sarah. Who started the shindy last night that’s fetched us all in here? Lout Sarah. Who’s going to be expelled? Howling Sarah. And who’ll be a jolly good riddance of bad rubbish? Chimpanzee Sarah. There you are. Make what you like of it, and don’t talk to us.”
This tirade took my breath away. I knew it said more than it meant. Still, it wasn’t flattering, and it taxed my affection sorely to sit quietly and hear it out. But, somehow, to-day I was too anxious and worried to care much what anybody said.