"S'pose that's meant for me," thought Plunger, "but I'm not going to answer such impudent questions."
"The noble president speaketh. Answer, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch," came a voice in Plunger's ear, accompanied by a sharp kick on the shins.
Gargoyle with the eyebrows! Gargoyle with the wiry thatch! Was there ever such insolence? But that kick on the shins told Plunger that to raise any protest would only bring upon him worse punishment, so he stammered out:
"Fre—Frederick Pl—Plunger."
"Plunger! Thy name is worse than thy face."
Plunger heard sniggers on every side at this reference to his name, of which he had always been very proud.
"It's such an uncommon one, you know," he had often said to his cronies at Garside. And now the wretched crew into whose hands he had fallen were trying to make fun of it. He bubbled over with indignation, but simmered down on hearing similar questions put to his companion in misfortune.
He was aroused from these reflections by hearing the chief of the band exclaim, in tones of command:
"Make fast the portal!"
He heard the sound as of a rusty bolt being thrust into its socket.