“Please, Haviland, he cheeked me,” he faltered.
“Cheeked you, did he? I wonder you haven’t had Sefton up here with his cane, and of course that wouldn’t have meant a thousand lines for me for not keeping order, would it?”
“He tell me he smack my head,” cut in Anthony. “I tell him he can’t do it. Then he try. Ha!”
The room tittered. Haviland was mollified.
“Did he do it?” he said.
“No fear. I knock him over. Then you come in.” And the speaker stood with his head in the air, and the light of battle in his eyes, albeit one of them was rather swollen, looking for all the world a youthful reproduction of one of his warrior sires.
“Well, I know jolly well that Cetchy didn’t begin the row,” pronounced Haviland, throwing down his square cap, and beginning to take off his coat and vest with a yawn. “Get into bed, Smithson. If I hear anything about this to-morrow from Sefton, I’ll sock your head off. If not, I’ll let you off this time. Now shut up, you fellows. No more talking.”
There was no need to repeat the order. Silence prevailed in that dormitory forthwith.