Felgate and the Master of the Shell had not hit it from the first day of their acquaintance; and within the last few days an occurrence had taken place which had brought the two into violent collision.
Railsford on leaving his room one afternoon had been attracted by the noise of groans and weeping at the far end of the passage.

Going in the direction of the melancholy sounds, he discovered Bateson, the Baby, with a face as white as a sheet, huddled up all of a heap, the picture of misery and tribulation.
"What is the matter ?" inquired the master.
The sufferer did not hear him at first; but on a repetition of the question he looked up and groaned.
"Oh, I'm dying! I'm so ill! Oh, what _shall I_ do ?" Railsford was alarmed.

The boy looked so white, and trembled all over.
He stooped down to lift him up; but Bateson blubbered.
"Don't touch me, please.

Oh, I'm dying!" and rolled over, groaning.
It was no time for parleying.

Railsford lifted him up in his arms and looked at him.