Mordaunt folded his letter and placed it in an envelope. "Got a stamp,
Harcourt? I've run out." He extended a penny.
Harcourt looked up, pen in mouth, thumping his wet sheet with the blotting paper. "In my locker—I'll get you one in a second."
"Oh, do buck up," wailed the messenger. "I want to turn in, an' the
Padre's waiting."
"All right," retorted Harcourt. He rose to his feet. "I forgot: little boys lose their roses if they don't get to bed early. Billy, shove that letter in an envelope for me, to save time, while I get the stamp." His friend complied with the request and picked up his pen to address his own epistle. As he did so the prostrate juggler, with a sudden, spasmodic recrudescence of energy, flung his two assailants off him and struggled to a sitting position. They were on him again like wolves, but as they bore him prostrate to the deck he clutched wildly at a corner of the table-cloth.
The next moment the conflict was inextricably involved with the table-cloth, letters, note-paper, envelopes and ink descending upon the combatants in a cascade.
"You clumsy owls," roared Harcourt, returning from his locker. "Now, where's my letter…." He searched among the débris.
"I say, do buck up," wailed the sleepy voice on the threshold.
"Buck up?" echoed Harcourt. "Buck up! How the devil can I buck up—ah, here we are." He picked up an envelope, glanced carelessly under the still open flap and sat down to address it. "Got yours, Billy? Here's the stamp."
"Yes," replied the other, grovelling in the darkness under the table.
"This is it." He reappeared with a letter in his hand.
"The Padre——" again began the impatient envoy.