The fellow was a huge stupid oaf, low down in the middle
fourth, but the best bowler that the school had; yes, he hated him. He
opened his study door and listened. The passage was deserted, and, for a
moment, there was no sound save some one shouting down in the cricket field
and the buzzing of the fly on the pane. Then he heard voices from behind
Jerrard's door.
"No, I say--Jerrard--don't give me any more--please ... please don't."
"There I say--hold his mouth open; that's right, pour it down. We'll have
him singing in a moment."
"Oh I say--" there were sounds of a struggle and then silence again. At
last there began the most horrible laughter that Peter had ever known;
weak, silly, giggling, and little excited cries.
Then Jerrard's voice: "There, that will do; he's merry enough now."
Peter waited for no more, but strode across the passage and flung open the
door. Some chairs were overturned; Jerrard and a friend, hearing the door
open, had turned round. Leaning against the table, very flushed, his eyes
shining, his hair covered with dust, waving his arms and singing in a
quivering voice, was a small boy, very drunk. A glass and a whisky bottle
were on the table.
"You damned hound!" Peter was trembling from head to foot. "You shall get
kicked out for this."
Peter closed the door quietly behind him, and went back to his study.
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