"Yes; but supposing I don't?"
"Then," said Pip deliberately, "I should have to give you a thundering good licking, Link."
Linklater was no coward, but Pip's slow words dropped into his heart like ice. He felt miserably petty and mean, and he knew that he looked it. He raised the ghost of a laugh.
"Wha—what the blazes do you mean, old man?" he queried uneasily. "Rum way to treat your friends, isn't it?" It was the first time that he had admitted their friendship during that interview.
"Yes, filthy," said Pip. "But there's only one alternative—to report you to Chilly, and I don't want to do that. The less masters have to do with this job the better."
Linklater plucked up courage. Pip seemed so good-tempered and serene.
"Well, old chap," he said easily, "I absolutely refuse to fight you. The idea's absurd. So there!"
He leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who has neatly turned an awkward corner.
Pip looked at him grimly.
"I didn't say fight," he explained. "I said I should have to give you a licking,—an ordinary, low-down caning, that is,—a monitor's lamming,—in here. Of course, if you resist, I shall have to knock you down till you give in; and then I—I shall bend you over in the usual way, that's all."