We were not left very long in suspense. In a quarter of an hour
Bradshaw returned, walking painfully, and bearing what, to the expert's
eye, are the unmistakable signs of a 'touching up', which, being
interpreted, is corporal punishment.

'Hullo,' said White, as he appeared, 'what's all this?'

'How many?' enquired the statistically-minded Kendal. 'You'll be
thankful for this when you're a man, Bradshaw.'

'That's what I always say to myself when I'm touched up,' added Kendal.

I said nothing, but it was to me that the wounded one addressed
himself.

'You utter ass,' he said, in tones of concentrated venom.

'Look here, Bradshaw--' I began, protestingly.

'It's all through you--you idiot,' he snarled. 'I got twelve.'

'Twelve isn't so dusty,' said White, critically. 'Most I ever got was
six.'

'But why was it?' asked Kendal. 'That's what we want to know. What have
you been and gone and done?'

'It's about that Euripides paper,' said Bradshaw.

'Ah!' said Kendal.