“Did he do what?” cried Wyatt, bursting into a roar of laughter. “You should go and look at the guards’ uniforms. Tattered, dear boy, tattered. The leg of one fellow’s overalls was torn right up from bottom to top, another had his jacket dragged off, and two men have got pairs of the most beautiful black eyes you can imagine.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated Dick.
“Oh, yes, he went very quietly back to the cells, but they had to sit on him first, three of the lads, for about half-an-hour till he cooled down; and then they had to give him the frog’s march—four of them to carry him like on springs, while four more marched alongside, ready to jump on the frog if he tried to hop.”
“I never saw that done,” said Dick; “they each take a wrist or an ankle, don’t they?”
“That’s it, Dicky, and turn him face downward; and its wonderful how a fellow like that can kick out just like a frog, and drive the bearers here and there. But they got him back safe to his cell, and pitched him in. He’s a beauty! Aren’t you proud of him?”
“It’s disgraceful!” cried Dick angrily. “Did he hurt the men much?”
“Can’t give fellows black eyes without hurting ’em,” replied Wyatt, swinging his big legs about as he sat on the table; “but the boys don’t bear him any malice for that. What they don’t like is having their uniforms damaged.”
“What will happen now?”
“Master Bob will have to take the heroic remedy reserved for bad boys.”
“What do you mean?”