This pointed allusion to my misfortunes disinclined me to hold further conversation with Richard Brown, and the meal ended in general silence.
As we trooped back to the schoolroom I overheard Faulkner say to another of the seniors—
“I say, did you see the way Tempest flared up when I said that about the pistol just now? Rather awkward for him, I fancy, if he’s got one.”
“What’s the odds if he didn’t shoot the dog?” was the philosophical reply.
For all that, I had observed the Dux’s confusion, and the sight of it made me very uncomfortable on his account. Faulkner was right. It would be precious awkward for any one who might be discovered to possess a pistol. The fact that firearms were expressly forbidden at Dangerfield College was itself, I am sorry to say, a strong presumption in favour of Tempest having one. Besides, I had myself once heard him speak about shooting rooks at home with a pistol.
Oddly enough, chance was to put in my way a means of setting my mind at rest almost immediately.
“I say, kid,” said the Dux, as I entered the schoolroom just before the time, “I’ve left my Latin grammar in my locker upstairs. Look sharp, or you’ll be late again and catch it.”
That was his style all over—insult and injury hand in hand. He only practised it on fellows he really liked, too.
“I say, I can’t,” pleaded I. “Plummer will give it me hot if he catches me again. I’ve got it pretty bad as it is.”
“I know you have; that’s why I tell you to look sharp.” It was no good arguing with Tempest. I knew he would risk his neck for me any day. That would be much less exertion to him than running upstairs. So I went.