It was the last day but one of the Summer term, and the Philosophers were in a ferment. The lists were to be out in the afternoon, and a score of events were to be decided by them. Was I to get on to the top form of my division, and if so, was it Langrish or Purkis who was to be displaced? Or was I, after all my grind, to yield a place to the truculent Coxhead?
More than that, was Warminster to be beaten after all by a day boy called Dicky Brown, who, amid all the changes and distractions of the term, had stuck doggedly to his work, and was reported a hot man for the head place in the junior division?
All this was exciting enough, but it was as nothing to the tussle at the head of the school.
Pridgin’s alarming burst of work in the Easter term had, contrary to all expectation, not died out. Every one prophesied he would sicken of it. Wales laughed at him. Crofter smiled sweetly. Tempest inquired frequently after his health, and even Redwood knocked off some of his extra cricket to keep pace with it.
“What are you trying to do?” asked Tempest one day, as his friend looked in.
“Nothing, my dear fellow, only amusing myself, I assure you.”
“You have a queer idea of fun. Do you know, I’ve hardly been out on the river all the term, owing to you.”
“Don’t let me prevent you, old chap. The exercise will do you good.”
Tempest laughed.
“I hope yours will do you good. But two can play at your game.”