“I shall be quaite delaighted,” drawled out Tracy.
“Glad to hear it; I hope you’ll be quaite equally delaighted when you leave us.” The mimicry was so perfect that all the boys broke into a roar of laughter, which was all the louder because Tracy immediately began to chafe and “smoke.”
“And, Jones,” said Power, as the laugh against Tracy subsided, “I think I saw you throw a snowball and hit Smythe. I strongly suspect, too, that you were the fellow who hit Brown yesterday. I think every one will know, Jones, why you chose Smythe and Brown to pelt, instead of any other monitors. You too come to the sixth-form room after breakfast.”
“I didn’t throw one,” said Jones.
“You astounding liar,” said Henderson, “I saw you with my own eyes.”
“Oh, ay; of course you’ll say so to spite me.”
“Spite you,” said Henderson scornfully; “my dear fellow, you don’t enter into my thoughts at all. But mark you, Master Jones, I know moreover that you’ve been the chief getter-up of this precious demonstration. You told the fellows that you’d lead them. I’m not sure that you didn’t quote to them the lines—
“‘Press where ye see my white plume shine amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of—Jones.’”
Another peal of laughter followed this allusion to Jones’s well-known nickname of White-feather, a nickname earned by many acts of conspicuous cowardice.
“Hush, Flip,” whispered Power, “we mustn’t make this quite a joke. Jones,” he continued aloud, “do you deny throwing a snowball just now at Smythe?”