"I wonder you haven't mentioned Duncan," said Wildney.
"Duncan! why, my dear child, you might as well ask Owen, or even old Rose, at once. Bless you, Charlie, he's a great deal too correct to come now."
"Well; we've got six already, that's quite enough."
"Yes; but two fowls isn't enough for six hungry boys."
"No, it isn't," said Wildney. He thought a little, and then, clapping his hands, danced about and said, "Are you game for a regular lark, Eric?"
"Yes; anything to make it less dull. I declare I've very nearly been taking to work again to fill up the time."
Eric often talked now of work in this slighting way partly as an excuse for the low places in form to which he was gradually sinking. Everybody knew that had he properly exerted his abilities he was capable of beating almost any boy; so, to quiet his conscience, he professed to ridicule diligence as an unboyish piece of muffishness, and was never slow to sneer at the "grinders," as he contemptuously called all those who laid themselves out to win school distinctions.
"Ha, ha!" said Wildney, "that's rather good! No, Eric, it's too late for you to turn 'grinder' now. I might as well think of doing it myself, and I've never been higher than five from lag in my form yet."
"Haven't you? But what's the regular lark you hinted at?"
"Why, we'll go and seize the Gordonites' pigeons, and make another dish of them."