"Funk!" I laughed.
His eyes were full of excitement.
"It'll be an awful job to keep my hands off them," he said half to himself.
"Funk!" I said again.
"It's all very well, but . . . well, I'm rather strict you know."
"So much the better! All the better a row!"
"You Bolshevist!" he laughed. He was like a boy divided between two desires—to steal the apples and to escape the policeman. I half feared that his courage would desert him.
"Here," he said, "why not come over to school?"
The temptation was great and I wavered.
"No," I said at last, "I can't do it. My presence would distract the children, and . . . they won't smash all the windows in front of a stranger. You want my support, you dodger!"