Stephen Bywater sat in one of the niches of the cloisters, a pile of books by his side. Around him, in various attitudes, were gathered seven of the most troublesome of the tribe—Pierce senior, George Brittle, Tod Yorke, Fred Berkeley, Bill Simms, Mark Galloway, and Hurst, who had now left the choir, but not the school. They were hatching mischief. Twilight overhung the cloisters; the autumn evenings were growing long, and this was a gloomy one. Half an hour, at the very least, had the boys been gathered there since afternoon school, holding a council of war in covert tones.
“Paid out he shall be, by hook or by crook,” continued Stephen Bywater, who appeared to be president—if talking more than his confrères constitutes one. “The worst is, how is it to be done? One can’t wallop him.”
“Not wallop him!” repeated Pierce senior, who was a badly disposed boy, as well as a mischievous one. “Why not, pray?”
“Not to any good,” said Bywater. “I can’t, with that delicate face of his. It’s like beating a girl.”
“That’s true,” assented Hurst. “No, it won’t do to go in for beating; might break his bones, or something. I can’t think what’s the good of those delicate ones putting themselves into a school of this sort. A parson’s is the place for them; eight gentlemanly pupils, treated as a private family, with a mild usher, and a lady to teach the piano.”
The council burst into a laugh at Hurst’s mocking tones, and Pierce senior interrupted it.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t—”
“Say she, Pierce,” corrected Mark Galloway.
“She, then. I don’t see why she shouldn’t get a beating if she deserves it; it will teach her not to try her tricks on again. Let her be delicate; she’ll feel it the more.”
“It’s all bosh about his being delicate. She’s not,” vehemently interrupted Tod Yorke, somewhat perplexed, in his hurry, with the genders. “Charley Channing’s no more delicate than we are. It’s all in the look. As good say that detestable little villain, Boulter, is delicate, because he has yellow curls. I vote for the beating.”