Finch was sitting on the edge of the bed, whimpering. His coat and shirt were lying on the floor. Across his back were the welts of several long lashes. Another boy—Dunstan, a Fourth Former, in bad odor with the prefects, one of Thornton’s satellites—was by the window, as if he were on the point of jumping out. Fortunately the room was on the second storey of the building. No one else was in sight. Kit grabbed Dunstan and flung him on the bed; but Tony, strangely cool, his eyes glittering, restrained him.
“Wait, Wilson,” he said. “Take the key out of the door. Now, you Dunstan, where is Thornton?”
The boy did not answer. “Where’s Thornton?” repeated Tony, grasping Dunstan by the neck and wringing it. “He’s here, I know; or he was here. He couldn’t get out. Here, Kit, tie this animal while I look in the closets,” and he slung a bit of cord to his companion. They made short work of the Fourth Former, who indeed made scarcely any show of resistance; and then, having slung him helpless on the bed, they began to search for Thornton. As Kit opened the closet in Finch’s bedroom, Ducky darted out, and made for the hall door. But Tony was too quick for him. He grasped him from behind, pinioned his arms behind his back, and dug his knees into Thornton’s hips. The fat boy went to the floor like a log, and in a second Tony was kneeling over him with sharp knees digging into the soft flesh about his armpits. Kit gathered the boy’s sprawling feet together and tied them with a big muffler that he took from Finch’s bureau.
Finch himself, during the struggle, had stopped crying, and was now putting on his shirt and coat. He had just begun to realize that this was a rescue, not a fresh attack upon himself.
“Now, Finch,” said Tony, opening the door into the hall, “cut across to my room, and stay there until we come. Kit, take that little beast Clausen, and kick him down stairs. We won’t bother any further with him.” Kit executed this order with dispatch and thoroughness, and Clausen thanked his stars that he had got off so easily. Having got rid of Finch and Clausen, they relocked the door. “Now, you big fat bully,” said Deering, “you are going to get it. Get up and pull off your coat and shirt.”
As Thornton struggled to his feet—the operation was a clumsy one, as his ankles were lashed close together,—he began volubly: “You big bullies!” But he did not go far. “Here,” said Kit, “wash his mouth out, Tony.” And Tony washed it out with plenty of Castile soap and very little water. “Now strip!” said Tony. The bully slowly took off his coat, and then his shirt. “It’s not a pretty sight, is it, Kit?” laughed Tony. “Nevertheless it will hurt as much as Finch’s back. Bend over.”
“Please, please, let me off. ’Pon honor, I’ll never do it again—I swear—I swear—please don’t lick me; please, please don’t lick—ouch!” He suddenly collapsed with a squeal of anguish, as Tony brought the leathern strap across his shoulders with an unmerciful swish. “You wouldn’t let Finch off when he blubbered, would you? Well, we won’t let you off. Ready? Coming.”
“Ouch! ouch!!—oh, I swear—please—oh, you bullies, you—ouch! owhhh!” Then Kit stuffed a towel in his soap-suddy mouth and stilled the noise. When he had been well punished, they flung him on the bed, and let him howl there while they administered a like thrashing to Dunstan. He bore it a little more manfully, and consequently got off more easily. Suddenly they were all startled by a sharp knock on the door. “Gumshoe! by the great horn spoon!” exclaimed Kit. “Yes,” he called, “who is it?”
“Open, open this door instantly,” came in the well-known tones of Mr. Ebenezer Roylston. “Open instantly, or I shall send for the servants to break it in.”
“All right, sir,” called Kit, adding sotto voce, “It would be a jolly good stunt if we let him do it. Get on your coats,” he hissed at the two Fourth Formers. Instinct prompted them to quickness; but not quick enough to satisfy Mr. Roylston, for the order was repeated, and the handle of the door rattled impatiently.