“Will he summons you, Ali? We’ll all go and see the Grand Turk in the dock,” cried Jock.
“Don’t flatter yourself; he wouldn’t think of it.”
“How much did you fork out?” asked Bobus.
Allen declaimed in the last refinement of Eton slang (carefully treasured up by the others for reproduction) against the spite of the keeper, who he declared had grinned with malice as he turned him out at a little back gate into a lane with a high stone wall on each side, and two ruts running like torrents with water, leading in the opposite direction to Kenminster, and ending in a bottom where he was up to the ankles in red clay.
“The Eton boots, oh my!” cried Jock, falling backwards with one of them, which he had just pulled off.
“And then,” added Allen, “as I tried to get along under the wall by the bank, what should a miserable stone do, but turn round with me and send me squash into the mud and mire, floundering like a hippopotamus. I should like to get damages from that villain! I should!”
Allen was much more angry than was usual with him, and the others, though laughing at his Etonian airs, fully sympathised with his wrath.
“He ought to be served out.”
“We will serve him out!”
“How?”