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.
"Six!"
"Five past."
"Why didn't you get up then?"
"I went to sleep again."
"Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I've had my eye on you for some time, and I've seen it coming on. You've got swelled head, young man. That's what you've got. Frightful swelled head. You think the place belongs to you."
"I don't," said Mike indignantly.
