On the contrary, it rose rather
sloppily. A soaking rain was steadily descending, and the streets
presented a continuous scene of puddles. The boys dashed through it
without umbrellas (I never saw one of them carry an umbrella in my
life, and don't believe the phenomenon ever was seen), their clean
surplices on their arms; on their way to attend ten-o'clock morning
prayers in the cathedral. The day was a holiday from school, but not
from morning service.
The college bell was beginning to ring out as they entered the
schoolroom. Standing in the senior's place, and calling over the roll,
was Tom Channing, the acting senior for a few brief hours. Since
Gaunt's departure, the previous day, Tom Channing had been head of the
school; it lay in the custom of the school for him so to be. Would his
place be confirmed? or would he lose it? Tom looked flurried with
suspense. It was not so much being appointed senior that he thought of,
as the disgrace, the humiliation that would be his portion, were he
deposed from it. He knew that he deserved the position; that it was his
by right; he stood first on the rolls, and he had done nothing whatever
to forfeit it. He was the school's best scholar; and--if he was not
always a perfect model for conduct--there was this much to be said in
his favour, that none of them could boast of being better.
The opinion of the school had been veering round for the last few days
in favour of Tom.
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