“Yes; but when he does, you feel as if it’s only a crust,” cried Gilmore.
“And that the jam underneath isn’t nice,” added Macey. “Never mind. It’s nothing fresh. We always knew that our West India possessions were rather hot. Come on, Vane. I don’t know though. I don’t want to go now.”
“Not want to come? Why?”
“Because I only wanted to keep you two from dogs delighting again.”
“You behaved very well, Vane, old fellow,” said Gilmore, ignoring Macey’s attempts to be facetious. “He thinks you’re afraid of him, and if he don’t mind he’ll someday find out that he has made a mistake.”
“I hope not,” said Vane quietly. “I hate fighting.”
“You didn’t seem to when you licked that gipsy chap last year.”
Vane turned red.
“No: that’s the worst of it. I always feel shrinky till I start; and then, as soon as I get hurt, I begin to want to knock the other fellow’s head off—oh, I say, don’t let us talk about that sort of thing; one has got so much to do.”
“You have, you mean,” said Gilmore, clapping him on the shoulder. “What’s in the wind now, Weathercock?”