“Hallo, Cetchy! Not gated, are you? Come out bird-nesting.” The voice was that of Smithson minor.
Since their little scrimmage in the dormitory the two had become very friendly, and had been out together several times.
“All right.”
“Thought you were gated when I saw Haviland go out alone,” went on Smithson as they started. “Hallo! There’s Clay! Quick. We’ll dodge him. I’ve got an impos to do for him. I’m not gated, but if he saw me he might want to know why I’m not doing it.”
Having successfully dodged the master they struck across some fields. But alack and alas! in escaping one possible danger they were destined to run straight into the jaws of another and a more certain. At the crossing of a stile there was a rush of big fellows who had been lying in wait on the other side, and in a trice they were pounced upon and collared by Jarnley and his gang.
“Got you at last, have I, Cetchy?” snarled that worthy, fairly grinning with delight. “Oh, I’ve a long score to pay off on your black hide, haven’t I? and I’m going to begin now,” tweaking the other savagely by the ear with one hand though holding him firmly by the collar with the other. “You would get me tanned by Clay, would you?”
“I was tanned too,” protested the victim.
“And now you’ll be tanned again. What Clay gave you—gave us—is nothing to what we are going to give you now. And the seven hundred lines, and the lines Sefton gave us all but let you off.”
“Shut up, Perkins, you beastly bully!” yelped Smithson minor, who was undergoing his share of trial in the little matter of a twisted arm and a fistic punch or two thereon. “I’ll report you to Haviland if you don’t leave us alone.”
“Oh, you’d sneak, would you? Take that—and that”—emphasising the expostulation with a couple of sounding smacks on the head.