"That would never do, Noël dear, because you're the only one of us who's clever enough to do it."
So Noël's detestable and degrading idea was shelved without Oswald having to say anything that would have made the youthful poet weep.
"I suppose you don't mean me to say what I thought of," said H.O., "but I shall. I think you ought all to be in a Would-be-Kind Society, and vow solemn convents and things not to be down on your younger brother."
We explained to him at once that he couldn't be in that, because he hadn't got a younger brother.
"And you may think yourself lucky you haven't," Dicky added.
The ingenious and felicitous Oswald was just going to begin about the council all over again, when the portable form of our Indian uncle came stoutly stumping down the garden path under the cedars.
"Hi, brigands!" he cried in his cheerful unclish manner. "Who's on for the Hippodrome this bright day?"
And instantly we all were. Even Oswald—because after all you can have a council any day, but Hippodromes are not like that.
"HI, BRIGANDS!" HE CRIED.