“Oh!” said Telson, “I’m reported, please, Riddell.”
“What for? Who reported you?” asked Riddell.
“Game — for fighting,” replied Telson.
“He hasn’t told me of it. You’d better come in the morning.”
“Oh! it’s all right,” said Telson. “I was fighting King in the ‘Big’ this afternoon.”
Riddell looked perplexed. This was the first case of a boy voluntarily delivering himself up to justice, and he hardly knew what to do.
However, he had found out thus much by this time — that it didn’t so much matter what he did as long as he did something.
“You know it’s against rules,” said he, as severely as he could, “and it’s not the first time you’ve done it. You must do fifty lines of Virgil, and stop in the house on Monday and Tuesday.”
“All right! Thanks,” said Telson, rapidly departing, and leaving Riddell quite bewildered by the apparent gratitude of his fag.
Telson betook himself quietly to his study and began to write his lines. It was evident from the restless way in which he looked up at every footstep outside he did not expect to remain long undisturbed at this harmless occupation. Nor was he disappointed.
In about ten minutes King entered and said, “I say, Telson, you’re in for it! You’re to go to Bloomfield directly.”
“What’s he given you?”
“A licking!” said King; “and stopped my play half a week. But I say, you’d better go — sharp!”
“I’m not going,” said Telson.
“What!” exclaimed King, in amazement.
“Cut it,” said Telson; “I’m busy.”
“He sent me to fetch you,” said King.
“Don’t I tell you I’m not coming? I’ll lick you, King, if you don’t cut it!”
King did “cut it” in a considerable state of alarm at the foolhardiness of his youthful comrade.
But Telson knew his business. No sooner had King gone than he took up his Virgil and paper, and repaired once more to Riddell’s study.
“Please, Riddell,” said he, meekly, “do you mind me writing my lines here?”
“Not a bit,” said Riddell, whose study was always open house to his youthful fag.
Telson said “Thank you,” and immediately deposited himself at the table, and quietly continued his work, awaiting the result of King’s message.
The result was not long in coming.
“Telson!” shouted a voice down the passage in less than five minutes.
Telson went to the door and shouted back, “What’s the row?”
“Where are you?” said the voice.
“Here,” replied Telson, shutting the door and resuming his work.
“Who’s that?” asked Riddell of his fag.
“I don’t know, unless it’s Game,” said Telson.
“Now then, Telson,” cried the voice again, “come here.”
“I can’t — I’m busy!” shouted Telson back from where he sat. At the same moment the door opened, and Game entered in a great state of wrath.
The appearance of a Parrett monitor “on duty” in the schoolhouse was always a strange spectacle; and Game, when he discovered into whose study he had marched, was a trifle embarrassed.
“What is it, Game?” asked Riddell, civilly.
“I want Telson,” said Game, who, by the way, had scarcely spoken to the new captain since his appointment.
“What do you want?” said Telson, boldly.
“Why didn’t you come when you were sent for?” demanded Game.
“Who sent for me?”
“Bloomfield.”
“I’m not Bloomfield’s fag,” retorted Telson. “I’m Riddell’s.”
“What did I tell you this afternoon?” said Game, beginning to suspect that he had fallen into a trap.
“Told me to go to the captain after chapel.”
“And what do you mean by not going?”
“I did go — I went to Riddell.”
“I told you to go to Bloomfield,” said Game, growing hot.
“Bloomfield’s not the captain,” retorted Telson, beginning to enjoy himself. “Riddell’s captain.”
“You were fighting in the ‘Big,’” said Game, looking uneasily at Riddell while he spoke.
“I know I was. Riddell’s potted me for it, haven’t you, Riddell?”
“I’ve given Telson fifty lines, and stopped his play two days,” said Riddell, quietly.