"There's Dig will get into no end of a row, as it is.

He was writing out that imposition for you, and now he's hurt his arm through helping me--brick that he is! I suppose you won't mind if I finish the lines for him ?" Arthur was staking high, and would have been sadly disconcerted had his kinsman taken him at his word.
"Is your arm really hurt, Oakshott ?" inquired the master.
"Oh no; not much," said Digby, wincing dramatically, and putting on an air of determined defiance to an inward agony.

"I dare say I can manage, after a rest.

We had taken some of the books out, so I only had the bookcase and three shelf-loads of books on the top of me! That wasn't so much!" "How much have you written ?" demanded the master.
"Two pages, please, sir." "This time I will let that do." "Thanks, awfully!" broke in Arthur; "you're a brick! Dig'll never do it again, will you, Dig ?" "I could do it, you know, if you really wanted," said Dig, feeling up and down his wounded limb.
"That will do!" said Mark, who had already begun to have a suspicion that he had been "done." "Clear up this mess, and don't let me hear any more noise overhead." When he had gone, the friends embraced in a gust of jubilation.
"No end of a notion of yours!" said Dig.

"That leaves the lines for the doctor and the others for Ainger.