The ill-starred Badders was a moment too late in his retreat. Birds tripped him up, and Jim laid him flat on the floor. “The only question is what to do with him,” he said. “Shall we bind the sacrifice with cords? Cuckoo, indeed! That’s an insult to you, Birds. You shall choose.”
So Badders was tied up, trussed like a fowl and set in the corner, and the others threw paper darts at his face. He was obliged under threat of torture to open his mouth wide, and the first who threw a paper dart into it won. It lasted some time, and then the usual evening rag was over, the room was restored to some semblance of order, and all three sat down for refreshments. Birds stripped off his torn and dripping shirt, and sat on the floor just as Nature had made him as far as the waist. She had made him very nicely indeed.
“Fifth of May,” announced Badsley, “and I would to God it were the fiftieth.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got my Tripos coming on. That’s the result of being so devilish clever and being told to take your Tripos in your second year. I almost wish I was a fool like Jim or you. What have you two been doing? Why weren’t you in Hall?”
“Went up to Granchester in a canoodle, which rhymes with caboodle.”
“There was a young lady of Exeter,” remarked Badders thoughtfully.
“No, there wasn’t. At least, we know all about her.”
“She was more amusing than going to Granchester. Why didn’t you play cricket this afternoon instead of slacking?”
“Because I’m playing for the University of Cambridge all to-morrow and the next day,” said Birds, “and three days’ consecutive cricket is more than I can bear.”