'You aren't,' said Farnie. 'You've got three pounds twelve and sixpence
half-penny. If you will keep counting your money in public, you can't
blame a chap for knowing how much you've got.'

Monk, slightly disconcerted, changed his plan of action. He abandoned
skirmishing tactics.

'Never mind that,' he said, 'the point is that I want that four pounds.
I'm going to have it, too.'

'I know. At the end of term.'

'I'm going to have it now.'

'You can have a pound of it now.'

'Not enough.'

'I don't see how you expect me to raise any more. If I could, do you
think I should have borrowed it? You might chuck rotting for a change.'

'Now, look here, old chap,' said Monk, 'I should think you'd rather
raise that tin somehow than have it get about that you'd been playing
pills at some pub out of bounds. What?'

Farnie, for one of the few occasions on record, was shaken out of his
usual _sang-froid_. Even in his easy code of morality there had
always been one crime which was an anathema, the sort of thing no
fellow could think of doing. But it was obviously at this that Monk was