ng every one, except perhaps myself, who was undergoing a most uncomfortable mental argument as I slowly recalled the events of last night.
"Give it up; ask another," said Faulkner. "I'm precious glad I've not got a pistol." Here the Dux coloured a little, and relapsed into silence. He disliked Faulkner, and objected to his cutting into the conversation.
"One comfort," said I, endeavouring to change the topic: "we may get off that brutal Latin exercise if Plummer takes on hard about this affair."
"Poor old Hector!" said Dicky. "If that's so, we shall owe him one good turn at least--eh, old Compound Proportion?"
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