“Yes, he did.”
“Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?”
“Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?”
“I do.”
“Punch his head, Dick!”
“Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver.”
I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as prize for knightly contest. Indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively, I being carried off in triumph by the victorious party.
For a period it remained a mystery to me, until I asked explanation of Norval—we called him “Norval,” he being one George Grampian: it was our wit. From taking joy in teasing me, Norval had suddenly become one of my greatest admirers. This by itself was difficult enough to understand. He was in the second eleven, and after Dan the best fighter in the lower school. If I could understand Norval's change of attitude all would be plain to me; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloakroom and slipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for my company to Camden Town, I put the question to him bluntly.
“Why should I walk home with you? Why do you want me?”
“Because we like you.”