Kenneth dashed off to his own room, and came back in a minute.
“Here you are!” he cried. “Slip on those socks.”
“But I’ve got socks.”
“But they won’t do. On with these.”
“But—”
“On with them. The gong will go directly.”
Horribly scared at the idea of keeping The Mackhai waiting again, Max obeyed, hardly knowing what he did, and then he made a protest as Kenneth held out a garment for him to put on next.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “I couldn’t put on that!”
“But you must. You haven’t a moment to spare; and it’s my best one.”
Max shrank, and then yielded, for all at once boom! boom! boom! sounded the gong; and, half frantic with haste and his want of moral courage, the poor boy submitted to the domination of his tormentor, with the result that, five minutes after the gong had ceased, and still hesitating as to whether he had not better stay away, Max followed Kenneth down-stairs, that young gentleman having preceded him two minutes.