“Bravo, Senna T!” cried another.
A dictionary flew across the room, struck the amateur acrobat in the back, and fell on the floor, but not much more quickly than my new friend went over backwards, the blow having made him overbalance so that his feet came with a crash on the desk, the ink flew out of two little leaden wells, and the performer rolled off on to the form, and then to the floor, with a crash.
“Here!” he cried, springing up. “Who did that? Give me that book. Oh, I know!” he cried, snatching the little fat dictionary, and turning over the leaves quickly. “‘Eely-hezer Burr.’ Thanky, I wanted some paper. I’m all over ink. What a jolly mess!”
As he spoke, he tore out three or four leaves, and began to wipe the ink off his jacket.
“I say, Burr,” cried the big boy who had read about Penelope, “Mercer’s tearing up your dictionary.”
“You mind your own business!” cried Mercer, tearing out some more leaves, and then throwing the book at the tale-teller just as the tall, thin boy, who bore the same name as I, came striding up with his face flushed and fists doubled, to plant three or four vigorous blows in Mercer’s chest and back.
“How dare you tear my book?” he cried. “Here, you, fat Dicksee, bring it here.”
“Thought you meant me to use it,” cried Mercer, taking the blows good-humouredly enough. “Oh, I say, don’t! you hurt!”
“Mischievous beggar!” said my senior taking the book and marching off.
“Go on! Ask your father to buy you a new one,” cried Mercer derisively, as he applied a piece of blotting-paper to one leg of his trousers. “Hiss! Goose!”