“You’d only make one,” said Annie.
“The chosen one,” added Laura.
“Oh, my! Who said girls!” exclaimed John Thomas, again turning, as if to escape. “Well—good-night.”
“Nay, you’ve got to make your pick,” said Muriel. “Turn your face to the wall, and say which one touches you. Go on—we shall only just touch your back—one of us. Go on—turn your face to the wall, and don’t look, and say which one touches you.”
He was uneasy, mistrusting them. Yet he had not the courage to break away. They pushed him to a wall and stood him there with his face to it. Behind his back they all grimaced, tittering. He looked so comical. He looked around uneasily.
“Go on!” he cried.
“You’re looking—you’re looking!” they shouted.
He turned his head away. And suddenly, with a movement like a swift cat, Annie went forward and fetched him a box on the side of the head that sent his cap flying and himself staggering. He started round.
But at Annie’s signal they all flew at him, slapping him, pinching him, pulling his hair, though more in fun than in spite or anger. He, however, saw red. His blue eyes flamed with strange fear as well as fury, and he butted through the girls to the door. It was locked. He wrenched at it. Roused, alert, the girls stood round and looked at him. He faced them, at bay. At that moment they were rather horrifying to him, as they stood in their short uniforms. He was distinctly afraid.
“Come on, John Thomas! Come on! Choose!” said Annie.