“He’s Pridgin—in the Eleven—makes beastly bad jokes, but not a bad chap. You’ll like fagging for him.”
“What—am I to fag?” said I, undergoing another shock. I had made quite sure exhibitioners were exempt from that indignity.
“There you go again. What did I tell you?” said Tempest, in tones of mild menace; “you’re putting it on again already. You’d better fish out that cane again, there’s a good chap.”
“Oh, please don’t—I didn’t mean, Tempest! All right, I’ll fag for him.”
Tempest regarded first me, then the cricket box where the cane lay, doubtfully.
“I tell you he’s not half a bad chap. Bother it,” added he, picking up the cane, “I must do it, kid. Awfully sorry, but it would be low to let you off because I know you. Look alive. One, middling warm, on each hand, that’s all. Thanks.”
He was quite unnecessarily grateful. His idea of middling warm, I could not help thinking, was not very different from hot. And yet I felt I could stand it better from him than from most.
“Some chaps,” said he, after returning me the cane to put back in its place, “would say that this sort of thing pained them more than it does you. It didn’t me. I fancy you felt it more than I did. Anyhow, you’ll remember what I said, won’t you? Pridgin’s not half a bad chap.”
“If you want any one to fag for you. Tempest—”
I began.