“What, indeed?” asked Henderson, mockingly; and as it was his way to quote whatever he had last been reading, he began to spout from the peroration of a speech which he had seen in the paper—“Aristocracy, throned on the citadel of power, and strong in—”
“What a fool you are, Henderson,” observed Franklin, another of the group; “I’ll tell you what we can do: we’ll burn that horrid black book in which he enters the detentions and impositions.”
“Poor book!” said Henderson; “what pangs of conscience it will suffer in the flames! Give it not the glory of such martyrdom. Walter,” he continued, in a lower voice, “I hope that you’ll have nothing to do with this humbug?”
“I will though, Henderson; if I’m to have nothing but canings and floggings, I may just as well be caned and flogged for something as for nothing.”
“The desk’s locked,” said Anthony; “we shan’t be able to get hold of the imposition-book.”
“I’ll settle that,” said Walter; “here, just hand me the poker, Dubbs.”
“I shall do no such thing,” said Daubeny quietly, and his reply was greeted with a shout of derision.
“Why, you poor coward, Dubbs,” said Franklin, “you couldn’t get anything for handing the poker.”
“I never supposed I could, Franklin,” he answered; “and as for being a coward, the real cowardice would be to do what’s absurd and wrong for fear of being laughed at or being kicked. Well, you may hit me,” he said quietly, as Franklin twisted his arm tightly round, and hit him on it, “but you can’t make me do what I don’t choose.”
“We’ll try,” said Franklin, twisting his arm still more tightly, and hitting harder.