“What was that?” I said.

I was startled to observe poor old Sippy apparently go off his onion. He raised his hands over his head, clutched his hair, wrenched it about for a while, kicked a table with great violence, and then flung himself into his chair.

“Curse him!” said Sippy. “May he tread on a banana-skin on his way to chapel and sprain both ankles!”

“Who was he?”

“May he get frog-in-the-throat and be unable to deliver the end-of-term sermon!”

“Yes, but who was he?”

“My old head master, Bertie,” said Sippy.

“Yes, but, my dear old soul⁠—”