He was there, and looked guilty enough when he saw me.
"Look here, Potter," I began, trying to be friendly in spite of all.

I got no further, for Potter, without a word, walked out of the door, leaving me standing alone in the middle of his study.
I had seen the working of a guilty conscience once or twice before at Draven's, but never knew it to work in quite so strange a manner as it did with Potter that evening.
There was nothing for it but to give him up as a bad job, and go to bed.
Which I did; and awoke next morning in a forgiving mood.
It was always a scramble at breakfast on Saturdays at Draven's to see who could get nearest to the ham, for we sickened of the cold mutton they gave us on other days.

This morning, to my gratification, I was "well up." That is, there were only two fellows before me, so that at any rate I was good for a fair, straight slice from the middle.
"Huzza!" said I, crowding up to Williams, who was next above me.

"I've never had anything but knuckle all this--" Williams faced round as he heard my voice; and then, without waiting to hear the end of my sentence, got up and took a seat at the lower end of the table.
"Poor beggar's out of sorts," said I to myself.

"Another of his bilious attacks, I suppose," I added, moving up to his seat and addressing the proud occupant of the carver's chair.