“Scurvy trick, hey?” cried Jack, growing warm. “Be careful! Your language is offensive, sir!”
“Well, you haven’t done anything to me that was offensive, have you? You think you can do just as you hanged please without anybody saying a word. But I’ll fix you! I’ll write a poem about you!”
“I don’t believe you will,” said Jack.
“Yes, I will. I’ve made up my mind to that, and I’ve been composing some of the stanzas while you’ve kept me locked up here.”
“Oh, you have? Well, you want to get them right out of your head.”
They led the freshman forth and made their way from the old building. As they departed, the man they had paid for watching stood at a distance and chuckled.
“Well, this has been a great night’s work,” he muttered. “Both chaps paid me a fiver. Ten dollars for doing nothing! I’d like to make a strike like that every night.”
The sophomores led Boltwood to the cab, into which they thrust him. Then they piled in, the door slammed, and the cab rolled away.
“Now,” said Ready, when they were all in the cab, “I want you to repeat some of the poetry you have composed about me.”