Slegge made a dash at them, but Glyn was too quick. Throwing one hand behind his back, he pressed Slegge with the other fiercely against the fence.
“There!” he cried triumphantly. “That’s like confessing it. Come on to the Doctor. There’s Mr Morris yonder.—Mr—”
“No, no, don’t! Pray don’t call!”
“Hah!” cried Glyn triumphantly. “Then you did write it?”
“I—I—”
“Speak! You did write it, you coward! Now confess!”
“Well, I—I was in a passion, and I only thought it would be a lark.”
“You were in a passion, and you thought it would be a lark!” cried Glyn scornfully. “You muddle-headed idiot, you did it to injure me, for you must have had some idea in your stupid thick brain that it would do me harm. But come on. You have confessed it, and you shan’t go alone to the Doctor to say that you repent and that you are sorry for it all, for you shall come with me. Quick! Now, at once, before the breakfast-bell rings; and we will see what the Doctor says. Perhaps he will understand it better than I do, for I hardly know what you meant.”
“No, no, don’t! Pray don’t, Severn! Haven’t I owned up? What more do you want?” And the big lad spoke with his lips quivering and a curious twitching appearing about the corners of his mouth; but Glyn seemed as hard as iron.
“What more do I want? I want the Doctor to know what a miserable coward and bully he has in the school.”