Mellor darted out of the shed with the note, without waiting for any further references to the new title conferred upon him.
"Won't you eat your words in the sand-pit to-morrow!" he cried as a parting shot.
"The cheeky beggar got the last word in anyhow," quoth Arbery as he closed the door.
Dead silence followed for a minute or two, then it was broken by Hasluck.
"You called us here, Percival," he said, turning to Paul, "to talk over the triangular squabble between you and Moncrief and Newall. You don't mind us putting that off for a bit? This is the thing we've got to settle, this cheeky challenge from the Beetles."
Paul, seeing there was no help for it, nodded assent.
"And you, Newall?"
Newall nodded in turn.
"Good! Well, then, having decided to take up the challenge from St. Bede's, the next thing to settle is, who's to be our champion at the sand-pit to-morrow?"
No one seemed in a great hurry to answer that question, but at length Newall, a curious smile hovering about his lips, said: