Alas! it was my turn to colour up. Had Dicky, I wondered, seen my square billycock?
At that moment Tempest’s name was called, and we saw our old Dux rise complacently in his seat and hold up his hand.
It was difficult to feel angry with him. He looked so cool and determined, his shoulders were so square, and the year that had elapsed since we met had added three good inches to his stature. It was a feather in a fellow’s cap to know Tempest, even if he did have his little joke at one’s expense now and then.
I came to the conclusion that Dicky and I must be the only two new boys in the house, for none of the numerous hands, grimy and otherwise, which went up were cased in anything but their native skin.
Presently the register clerk came to an end of his list, and I was beginning to congratulate both myself and Brown on our probable escape from detection when Mr Sharpe said—
“New boys, come forward.”
My left-hand neighbour interposed no obstruction now, as, followed by Dicky, I sidled out of my place and advanced along with five other youths to the front. I was conscious of smiles as I went past the desks, some of recognition of the late owner of the tan boots, some of appreciation of my blushes, and others, as I supposed, of the greenness which had led all my companions to commit the fatal error of not appearing in gloves, and of my error, though in a smaller degree, of appearing in bright yellow two-button goods instead of lavender of the regulation half-dozen.
I exchanged glances with Tempest, among others, who looked very serious, and was evidently chagrined that after all his kind trouble on my behalf I should now land myself in this dilemma. Good old Tempest! It wasn’t his fault.
“Answer to your—” began Mr Sharpe, when, suddenly catching sight of me, he said—
“Why, sir, what nonsense is this? What do you mean by wearing those gloves?”