I didn’t like this fellow. He appeared to me to think he was funny when he was not.
“Do you know if Tempest has come?” said I, hoping to impress him a little.
“Who?”
“Tempest—Harry Tempest. He’s at Sharpe’s too.”
“What sort of looking chap is he?” demanded the youth, who, I suspected, could have told me without any detailed description.
“He’s one of the seniors,” said I; “he was in the reserve for the Eleven last term.”
“Oh, that lout? I hope you aren’t a pal of his. That would about finish you up. If you want him, you’d better go and look for him. I don’t know whether every snob in the place has come up or not.”
And he departed in chase of a friend whom he had just sighted.
This was depressing. Not that I believed what he said about Tempest. But I had hoped that my acquaintance with my old schoolmate would redound to my own dignity, whereas it seemed to do nothing of the kind.
Presently I encountered a very small boy, of chirpy aspect, whom I thought I might safely accost.