"Do go, Scaife!" he entreated.
The Fifth formed a group; holding a council of war, engrossed in trying to find a way out of a wood which of a sudden had turned into a tangled thicket. And so what each would have strenuously prevented came to pass. Scaife pulled a bottle from under a sofa-cushion, and put it to his lips—John, standing at the door, could not see what was taking place.
When the bottle was torn from Scaife's hands, the mischief had been done. The boy had swallowed a quantity of raw spirit. Till now the whisky had been much diluted with mineral water.
"I'm going to him," yelled Scaife, struggling with his friends. "And I'm going to take a cricket stump with me. Le'me go—le'me go!"
The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust. After a brief struggle Scaife succumbed, helpless and senseless.
"One is reminded sometimes," said the Caterpillar, solemnly, "that the poor Demon is the son of a Liverpool merchant, bred in or about the Docks."
Nobody, however, paid any attention to Egerton, who, to do him justice, was the only boy present absolutely unmindful of his own peril. Expulsion loomed imminent. The window was flung wide open, eau de Cologne liberally applied. Scaife lay like a log.
And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve walked in.
"Scaife has had a sort of fit," explained an accomplished liar. "You know what his temper is, Trieve? And when he heard that you meant to 'whop' him, he went stark, staring mad."
This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve accepted it, probably with mental reservations.