“Stop him there, Ames!” cried Mr. Mainwearing.
Ames was slow to understand.
Mr. Mainwearing put down the cane on the mantelshelf and became very active; he leapt a desk clumsily, upset an inkpot, and collided with Ames at the door a moment after Peter had vanished. On the landing outside Peter hesitated, and then doubled downstairs to the boot-hole. For a moment Mr. Mainwearing was at fault. “Hell!” he said. All the class-room heard him say “Hell!” All the school treasured that cry in its heart for future use. “Young—,” said Mr. Mainwearing. It was long a matter for secret disputation in the school what particularly choice sort of young thing Mr. Mainwearing had called Peter. Then he heard a crash in the boot-hole and was downstairs in a moment. Peter was out in the area, up the area steps as quick as a scared grey mouse, and then he made his mistake. He struck out across the open in front of the house. In a dozen strides Mr. Mainwearing had him.
“I’ll thrash you, Sir,” said Mr. Mainwearing, swinging the little body by the collar, and shaking him as a dog might shake a rat. “I’ll thrash you. I’ll thrash you before the whole school.”
But two people had their blood up now.
“I’ll tell my uncle Nobby,” yelled Peter. “I’ll tell my uncle Nobby. He’s a soldier.”
Thus disputing they presently reappeared in the lower class-room. Peter was tremendously dishevelled and still kicking, and Mr. Mainwearing was holding him by the general slack of his garments.
“Silence, Sir, while I thrash you,” said Mr. Mainwearing, and he was red and moist.
“My uncle, he’s a soldier. He’s a V.C. You thrash me and he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you.”
“Gimme my cane, some one,” said Mr. Mainwearing.