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Again the Pot was prompt and courteous, and by return the twins were gloating over another letter, which, however, again disappointed them by its brevity.

“Dear Sir (it ran),

“As your time in this country is indeed getting short, I would advise you at once to confer personally with Mr. Mannock as to whether he can find room for your nephew or not; for, in the event of his having no vacancy, you still may be enabled to place the boy in one of the other houses.”

“Oh, the shuffler!” Peter shouted indignantly. “The quibbler! The sanctimonious humbug! He thinks he’s diddled Theopompus Jones, does he? He’ll find out his mistake before very long; it’ll be Theopompus Jones has diddled him. I wouldn’t trust that man with a bad halfpenny. He can’t answer a straight question, that’s what he can’t do—and yet to hear him talk....”

“I say,” interrupted Tod, “suppose they send in the bill, what’ll we do?”

“You don’t propose we should pay it, do you, you young ass?” Peter returned scornfully. “They never send ’em in till just before term, sometimes not till after. Don’t you remember how the pater grumbled last autumn because it didn’t come, and he wanted everything settled up before he sailed?”