But Jarnley had seen him coming, and tried to shuffle away. So, too, did his gang.
“Here—Hi, Jarnley!” he cried. “Wait a bit. I want to speak to you.”
There was no escape, short of taking to his heels, wherefore Jarnley stopped, with a very bad grace and faced round.
“Eh? What is it, Haviland?”
“Just this. That day I smacked your head for bullying Cetchy you said you’d fight me if I wasn’t a prefect. Well, I’m not a prefect now, so—come on.”
“Oh, I was only humbugging, Haviland,” returned Jarnley, not in the least eager to make good his words.
“Then you’d rather not fight?”
“Of course I don’t want to,” said Jarnley, shrinkingly. “And, look here, Haviland, I’m beastly sorry you’ve been reduced.”
What was to be done with a cur like this? Haviland knew that the other was lying, and was the reverse of sorry for his misfortunes. He had intended to give Jarnley his choice between fighting and being thrashed, but how, in the name of common decency, could he punch a fellow’s head who expressed such effusive sympathy? He could not. Baulked, he glared round upon the group.
“Any one else like to take advantage of the opportunity?” he said. “You, Perkins?”