"It's awfully hard to hear the bell from where I sleep, sir."

Owing to the increased numbers of the house this term Chapple had been
removed from his dormitory proper to a small room some distance away.

"Nonsense. The bell can be heard perfectly well all over the house."

There was reason in what he said. Herbert, who woke the house of a
morning, did so by ringing a bell. It was a big bell, and he enjoyed
ringing it. Few sleepers, however sound, could dream on peacefully
through Herbert's morning solo. After five seconds of it they would
turn over uneasily. After seven they would sit up. At the end of the
first quarter of a minute they would be out of bed, and you would be
wondering where they picked up such expressions.

Chapple murmured wordlessly in reply. He realised that his defence was
a thin one. Mr. Seymour followed up his advantage.

"You will write a hundred lines of Vergil," he said, "and if you are
late again to-morrow I shall double them."

Chapple retired.

This, he felt, was a crisis. He had been pursuing his career of
unpunctuality so long that he had never quite realised that a time
might come when the authorities would drop on him. For a moment he
felt that it was impossible, that he could not meet Mr. Seymour's
wishes in the matter; but the bull-dog pluck of the true Englishman
caused him to reconsider this. He would at least have a dash at it.