"Now, Harwood, lift yourself up and let's have it out once and for all. Don't stay sprawling there—that little tap can't have hurt you. What, aren't you going to fight? Come along, man!"
"I'm having no more, thanks," Harwood replied, in the tremulous voice of a craven. "Fighting's no sort of fun for me. I'm out of condition—you're as hard as nails."
"Well, of all the beastly funks—pooh, Harwood, what a first-class rotter you are! I wish I hadn't gone for you—it's a waste of powder and shot. Luckless Holbeck's to have a worm like you as a prefect! Get up and don't be scared. I wouldn't touch you again with a pole!"
Saved by this contemptuous promise from further violence, Luke rose groggily to his feet, making a great pretence of being badly shaken.
"Drop swinging the lead, Harwood, and listen to me a minute. The date of the re-played Final has been fixed. The game will be at Walsbridge as before. But you won't be there, Harwood. Neither will Doccan, nor any other of your gambling clique. You'll find some excuse for not going, all of you—understand?"
"But how can I promise for anybody save myself, Forge?"
"You arranged matters to your liking before—it will be just as easy to do it again. For the good of the school, you and your gang have got to be missing. We shall breathe cleaner air in your absence."
"But——" began Harwood, desperately.
"Promise, or take a hiding, whichever you prefer."
"No need to make a scene, Forge; I'll manage it somehow."