The solemn-faced boys went on in silence with the game.
“I say, please give me my cap,” Michael asked again.
No notice was taken of his appeal and Michael, looking round in despair, saw Rodber. He ran up to him.
“I say, Rodber, that boy over there has got my cap,” he said.
“Well, don’t come sneaking to me, you young ass. Go and smack his head.”
“Am I to really?” asked Michael.
“Of course.”
Michael was not prepared to withstand Rodber’s advice, so he went up to the solemn-faced boy and hit him as hard as he could. The solemn-faced boy was so much surprized by this attack that he did not for a moment retaliate, and it was only his friend’s gasp ‘I say, what fearful cheek,’ that restored him to a sense of what had happened.
In a moment Michael found himself lying on his back and almost smothered by the solemn-faced boy’s whole body and presently suffering agony from the pressure of the solemn-faced boy’s knees upon his arms pinioned cross-wise. Excited voices chattered about him from an increasing circle. He heard the solemn-faced boy telling his horrified auditors that a new kid had smacked his head. He heard various punishments strongly recommended, and at last with a sense of relief he heard the quick authoritative voice of the ubiquitous Rodber.
“Let him get up, young Plummer. A fight! A fight!”