“Rather. I know what it means too. It’s an extra reason why you should swallow your pride for once, in order to sell them. I tell you they are probably counting on your sticking out, and nothing would disappoint them more.”
“Well, old chap,” said Tempest, as we came to our door, “it’s not your fault if I don’t do it. I know you’re right, but—”
“But it’s a jolly bitter pill, and I wish I could swallow it for you. Good night.”
I had the sense for once to keep what I had heard to myself, and retired to bed more hopeful that all would turn out right than I had been for a day or two.
The next morning I was wandering about, aloof from my comrades, in the quadrangle, waiting for the bell to ring for first school, when Marple, the town bookseller, a tradesman familiar to most Low Heathens, accosted me. He was evidently not at home in the school precincts, and, with my usual modesty, I felt he had come to the right source for information.
“Do you belong to Mr Sharpe’s house, young gentleman?” said he, with a respectful nod which quite captivated me.
“Yes. Who do you want?”
“I want to see Mr Tempest very particular.”
“Oh, he’s up in his room. Wait a bit till the bell rings, and he’ll come out.”
So Mr Marple and I stopped and chatted about the holidays, which were to begin in a day or two, and the football matches and the river.