And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,
and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.
Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.
"Young Jackson," he said, "look here, I want to know what it all
means, and jolly quick. You weren't at house-fielding this morning.
Didn't you see the notice?"
Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.
"Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?"
Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for not
turning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above such
things, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? He
had not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he rather
fancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head of
the house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction that
it would not be politic to say so.
Happy thought: over-slept himself.
He mentioned this.
"Over-slept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself.
What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?"
Very trying this sort of thing.
"What time did you wake up?"
"Six," said Mike.
It was not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code of
morality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned he
could suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass.
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