"I can't help that," snapped Osbody. "I hate to sit in a draught. What do you other fellows say?"
The Squirms unanimously agreed with their leader. It would, they said, be like courting almost certain death from influenza or pneumonia to open the windows on such a night.
"Well," said Robin, "it comes to this: we want air and you want suffocation. What's the polite rule in these cases? The visiting team is given the choice. Are you for ventilation, my Merry Men?"
"Ay, ay, Robin!" the Merry Men cried, with one voice.
"Fresh-air fiends!" snorted Grain.
"We shan't agree," said Osbody.
"Right you are," cried Robin easily. "There's only one thing to do, then. We'll leave the tournament as it is, and call it a draw."
The Squirms stared at one another in blank consternation. To be robbed of their sweeping victory in this freakish fashion was a misfortune not to be borne.
"Tommy-rot!" exclaimed Osbody. "We haven't played a single chess-game yet."
"Funkpots!" sneered Grain. "You're afraid to see it through."