"That's not bad about 'basking on rugs on the Upper'," remarked Crabtree, critically; and Chips felt his heart between his teeth.
"The whole thing isn't bad," affirmed no other than Charles Cave, and that made Chips feel as though a royal palm had rested on his head; but there was just an element of doubt about the matter, owing to Crabtree's slight misquotation, which was more than literary flesh and blood could stand.
"You might let me see!" gasped Chips, at Crabtree's elbow.
"Why should I?" demanded that worthy, with all the outraged dignity of his very decided seniority.
Chips knew too well that he had taken a liberty which the actual circumstances alone could excuse; but nobody else was listening yet, so he whispered in Crabtree's ear, "Because I wrote it!"
"You what?" cried Crabtree, irritably.
"I wrote that thing."
"What thing?"
Everybody was listening now.
"That thing you're reading about 'Summer-Term'," said Chips shamefacedly.
"What a lie!" cried half the fellows in the hall.
"It isn't. I swear I did."
Charles Cave was too great a man either to pass any comment on the situation, or to withdraw the one he had already made on the verses themselves. But Crabtree was nodding his great red head with intimidating violence.
"Oh! so you wrote the thing, did you?"
"I did, I swear!"
"Then it's the greatest rot I ever read in my life," said Crabtree, "and the most infernal piece of cheek for a kid of your standing!"
