"Go on, Grain, skit," growled Osbody. "'Spose you think of me as Guy Fawkes, unable to set the fireworks going? Come and have a whack at it yourself, then, Mr. Clever!"
Grain swaggered nearer. "Don't mind if I do," he said. "Couldn't very well make a worse boggle of it, could I?"
He knelt beside the fire and drew from his overcoat pocket a brown-paper parcel, through which grease was oozing slightly. This was a bad investment in ham sandwiches, which Grain (almost always eating) had found far too fat for his liking.
Without opening the package, he scooped a hole for it amongst the newspapers and dry twigs, covered it with spreading boughs, and restarted the fire. It crackled, spluttered, and burst into a blaze, flinging off an unpleasant odour of rancid fat.
Still, as a warming spectacle its success was immediate. Grain had scored over Osbody, the established leader of the Squirms, and made but a poor effort to conceal his satisfaction.
"Smart!" sneered Osbody. "Since when did you start out hawking lard and dripping, Grain?"
This was the sort of bickering which was always going on between the two leading spirits of the Squirms. You never get a pleasant atmosphere where fellows are always trying to score off one another.
For a moment there was a waspish interchange of sarcastic remarks all round. Then Niblo, less peevish than the rest, started them off round the fire in a mock Indian war-dance, which warmed their blood and put them in a better temper.
"Rather a jolly stunt, Niblo, old boy," said Osbody. "Gives me a rattling good idea for a new band—one that should chew the ears off Robin Hood and his Merry Men."
"Out with it, 'Body, my bantam," Niblo said.