Marrapit cried: "Adjust that impression. You forgot me.
Consistently you forget me. My desires, my interests are nothing to
you."
"It's a rotten thing to make a fuss about."
"That is why I make a fuss. It _is_ a rotten thing. A disgusting and a
noisome thing. Bury it."
Into a bed of soft mould George struck a sullen heel; kicked the
tobacco towards the pit. Mr. Marrapit chanted over the obsequies: "I
provide you with the enormous expanse of my vegetable garden in which
to smoke. Yet upon my little acre you intrude. I am Naboth."
Ahab straightened his back; sighed heavily. Naboth started against the
prick of a sudden recollection:
"I had forgotten. Your examination?"
George half turned away. The bitterest moment of a sad day was come.
He growled:
"Pipped."
"_Pipped?_"
"Pilled."
"_Pilled?_"
"Spun."
"_Spun?"_
"Three months."
Mr. Marrapit put his hands to his head: "I shall go mad. My brain
reels beneath these conundrums. I implore English."
The confession of defeat is a thousandfold more bitter when made to
unkind ears. George paled a little; spoke very clearly: "I failed. I
was referred for three months."
"I am Job," groaned Mr. Marrapit. "I expected this. The strain is
unendurable. It is unnatural. The next chance shall be your last.
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