Mark nodded. "I d-d-don't know w-what you'll say to it."
"I can't say anything till I hear it."
"S-suppose I give Billy a hint?"
The scheme was so alien to a boy's conception of the word "honour," such a violation of an unwritten code—in fine, such a desperate remedy—that Jim gasped.
"D-don't look like that!" said Mark sharply. "C-can't you see that I loathe it—as—you do. If m-mother were alive I'd write to her. But if I told father, he would come bellowing down, and behave like a bull in a china shop. There would be a jolly r-r-row then."
"Mark," said Jim, "Archie is big enough to look after himself."
"It's worse than you think," Mark said. "He's meeting this g-g-girl after lock-up. He gets out of the pantry window. I daresay he's squared one of the Tobies" (Toby was the generic name for footmen). "And it's frightfully r-r-risky. If he's nailed, he'll be sacked."
"What a silly old ass!" said Jim.
"He runs these frightful risks—for what? To kiss a girl who bubbles at the mouth!"
"It's the one who squeaks," Jim amended. "And she's an artful dodger. She thinks he'll marry her. All right, I'll go with you to Billy after prayers to-night."