"Why, even Dicky Brown was too old a bird for that sort of chaff," said
Tempest; "he twigged it at once--and he's a day boy. Hand me that cane
out of the cricket box, there's a good fellow, and hold out your hand.
Don't yell; only muffs do that."
"What?" I exclaimed, "am I to be licked, Dux?"
"Don't call me Dux here. Yes, rather--three on each hand."
"But Mr Sharpe only said--"
"Sharpe--what's he got to do with it? Come on, look alive, or I shall
be late for tea."
I could barely be angry with him. He didn't seem to be able to see the
matter from my point of view at all, and was so genuinely friendly with
it all.
"The third will be a hot one," said he, as I held out my hand; "but I
don't want to break the cane--it's a good one."
The third _was_ a hot one.
"Hurt you much?" said Tempest, carefully examining his weapon.
"Middling," said I.
"Now the other hand. I suppose you've not got to know many chaps yet?
Did you get any cricket in the vac.?"
"No," said I, extending my left in a deprecating way.
"We did," said he. "We were jolly near licking--"
"Ow!"
"Feel that much? Good cane, isn't it? Now the other two will be easy."
To do him justice they were, or would have been had they not fallen
uncomfortably near the site of the first.
"Stick the cane back," said he,--"and look here," he added in the old
friendly way which always captivated me, "if you'll take any advice
you'll drop playing the fool. It may be funny, but it doesn't pay.
Fellows get bored by it."
"But I really--"
"I know you can't help it. Your best dodge is to lie low for a bit, and
keep out of everybody's way."
"I never meant--"
"Of course you didn't. You can't help being an ass, but don't swagger
or brag about it. Go easy--and, by the way, whatever you do, forget
you're an exhibitioner. It's not your fault, I know, but it's a sort of
thing to be lived down up here. Be nobody, that's the rule! then you'll
worry through."
"But _you_ were an exhibitioner, Tempest," I suggested, "weren't you?"
"Yes, but I kept it dark. Do you know the chap who asked me to tea?"
"No."
"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--"