The group is small enough. It is so much of course that a class-man should get his testamur that there is no excitement about it; generally the man himself stops to receive it.
The only anxious faces in the group are Tom's and Hardy's. They have not exchanged a word for the last few minutes in their short walk before the door. Now the examiners come out and walk away towards their colleges, and the next minute the door again opens and the clerk of the schools appears with a slip of paper in his hand.
“Now you'll see if I am not right,” said Hardy, as they gathered to the door with the rest. “I tell you there isn't the least chance for him.”
The clerk read out the names inscribed on the testamurs which he held, and handed them to the owners.
“Haven't you one for Mr. Blake of St. Ambrose?” said Tom desperately as the clerk was closing the door.
“No, sir; none but those I have just given out,” answered the clerk, shaking his head. The door closed, and they turned away in silence for the first minute.
“I told you how it would be,” said Hardy, as they passed out of the south gate into the Ratcliff Quadrangle.
“But he seemed to be doing so well when I was in.”