“Hush!” Jenk turned on him suddenly, and gripped him fast. “See here,” he cried in a suppressed tone, and curbing his anger as best he could, “you don't want Joe to go into that match, this afternoon, with this racket.” He shook it with eager, angry fingers.
“No,” said Berry without stopping to think, “I don't.”
“Well, then, you better keep still, and hold your tongue,” advised Jenk angrily.
“Well, what are you going to do with it?”
“None of your——” what, he didn't say, for just then a boy flew out of his room, to tear down the long hall. He had his back to them, and there was no time to skip back into Jenkins' own room, for the two had already passed it. One wild second, and Jenkins thrust the racket into the depths of the housemaid's closet close at hand, under some cleaning-cloths on a shelf. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Hullo!” The boy who was rushing along, suddenly turned, to see him whistling.
“Oh Jenk, is that you? See here, where's your Cæsar?”
“Don't know—gone up the spout,” said Jenkins carelessly, and keeping well in front of Beresford.
“Well, who has one? You haven't, Berry?” He turned to Tom anxiously.
“Not on your life he hasn't,” Jenk answered for him.