“Oh, I don’t know. Just mess it up,” said Bram.
“But supposing you were caught?”
“Well, it would be worth a row. You don’t know my governor, Jack. If you knew him, you’d do anything that was worth while getting pi-jaws for. I get pi-jaws now for nothing. If you funk it, don’t stay with me. But I’m going to climb into that rotten old tabernacle, and if I can burn it up, I jolly well will burn it up.”
Jack Fleming was seized with panic. Bram was always a mad sort of chap, but this project was far madder than anything of which he had fancied him capable.
“Look here, I’ve got to be in soon,” he protested. “And you’ve farther to go than I have. Don’t play the giddy goat.”
But Bram’s mind was dancing with the brightness of Blundell’s Diorama. He had no patience with the dull brain of his friend.
“I tell you I’m going to climb in,” he insisted.
“Well, I tell you I’m going home,” said Jack.
“All right then, go!” Bram could not forbear shooting a poisoned shaft. “Only if there’s a row, don’t peach, that’s all I ask.”
“You needn’t sneer at a fellow just because he doesn’t happen to be quite such a giddy goat as yourself,” said Jack.