“No!” shouted the senior day-room.
This was the last straw. The fellow seemed to go out of his way to lower the prestige of the house.
“Fact,” said Stanning. “I thought you knew.”
He continued to sit on the table, swinging his legs, while the full horror of his story sunk into the senior day- room mind.
“I wonder you don’t do something about it. Why don’t you touch him up? He’s not a prefect.”
But they were not prepared to go to that length. The senior day-room had a great respect both for Drummond’s word and his skill with his hands. He had said he would slay any one who touched Sheen, and they were of opinion that he would do it.
“He isn’t in,” said one of the brewers, looking up from his toasting-fork. “His study door was open when I passed.”
“I say, why not rag his study?” suggested another thickly, through a mouthful of toast.
Stanning smiled.
“Good idea,” he said.
It struck him that some small upheaval of Sheen’s study furniture, coupled with the burning of one or two books, might check to some extent that student’s work for the Gotford. And if Sheen could be stopped working for the Gotford, he, Stanning, would romp home. In the matter of brilliance there was no comparison between them. It was Sheen’s painful habit of work which made him dangerous.
Linton had been listening to this conversation in silence. He had come to the senior day-room to borrow a book. He now slipped out, and made his way to Drummond’s study.
Drummond was in. Linton proceeded to business.
“I say, Drummond.”
“Hullo?”
“That man Stanning has come in. He’s getting the senior day-room to rag Sheen’s study.”
“What!”
Linton repeated his statement.
“Does the man think he owns the house?” said Drummond. “Where is he?”
“Coming up now. I hear them. What are you going to do? Stop them?”
“What do you think? Of course I am. I’m not going to have any of Appleby’s crew coming into Seymour’s and ragging studies.”
“This ought to be worth seeing,” said Linton. “Look on me as ‘Charles, his friend’. I’ll help if you want me, but it’s your scene.”
Drummond opened his door just as Stanning and his myrmidons were passing it.
“Hullo, Stanning,” he said.
Stanning turned. The punitive expedition stopped.
“Do you want anything?” inquired Drummond politely.
The members of the senior day-room who were with Stanning rallied round, silent and interested. This dramatic situation appealed to them. They had a passion for rows, and this looked distinctly promising.
There was a pause. Stanning looked carefully at Drummond. Drummond looked carefully at Stanning.
“I was going to see Sheen,” said Stanning at length.
“He isn’t in.”
“Oh!”
Another pause.
“Was it anything special?” inquired Drummond pleasantly.
The expedition edged a little forward.
“No. Oh, no. Nothing special,” said Stanning.
The expedition looked disappointed.
“Any message I can give him?” asked Drummond.
“No, thanks,” said Stanning.
“Sure?”
“Quite, thanks.”
“I don’t think it’s worth while your waiting. He may not be in for some time.”
“No, perhaps not. Thanks. So long.”
“So long.”
Stanning turned on his heel, and walked away down the passage. Drummond went back into his study, and
