"Something must be done with that Pip!" he fumed, throwing down his book on the first desk.
"What's the poor chap done now?" cried Tim, turning off from his window quite readily, as there was nothing more to be seen. "Can't you let up on him, Bony?"
"No," said Bony, called short for Bonaparte, much to his distress, for the great air which he assumed he fondly hoped was to bring him distinction, "and none of us ought to."
"It wasn't the poor little beggar's fault that King got hurt," said Tim, thrusting his hands in his pockets and lounging over toward Bony, "and we ought to remember that."
"Don't preach," cried Bony, derisively. "Well, he is such an insufferable little cad!" he brought up in disgust. "And that country lout—Great guns! how did that fellow dare to address me?" With that he began to fume up and down the room, puffing out his chest at every step.
"Has any one dared to speak to our Bony?" cried Tim, throwing his head back and blowing out his cheeks, in step and manner imitating as much as his long figure could, as he followed the other one down between the rows of desks.
"See here, now, Tim," Bony turned suddenly amid the roars of the delighted boys, "you quit that now," and he doubled up his fists in a rage.
"Excuse me, your high mightiness, if I object to being crushed," said Tim, coolly, and folding his fists, which were long and muscular like the rest of his body. "Now, then, Bony, if you like."
But Bony didn't like, taking refuge in, "You're no gentleman," and turning his back.
"I suppose not," said Tim, coolly, and regarding his fists affectionately, "but I don't see why these wouldn't do. I really can't see, Bony, why you object to them; they're a good pair."