"Oh, by Jove, no thanks, Harwood! Awfully decent of you, but this is entirely my own show."
Contrary to his custom, Harwood did not efface himself this time. He resumed his seat beside Dick and talked in quiet tones of other things, apparently oblivious of a growing disturbance in the shrubbery behind him—a row which closely concerned him, too, because the Juniors of his House were foremost in making it.
It was not now the old squabble between Merry Men and Squirms, to which the Prefects, by common consent, turned a deaf ear. On this occasion the Squirms had it all to themselves. They were "ragging" somebody, and the shrieks of their victim were agonized enough to suggest a lynching.
"Are your youngsters killing a pig this morning, Harwood?" the Captain inquired, uneasily. "Rather more din than usual, what? Shouldn't like the Old Man to hear it in his present raw state."
Harwood looked languidly round at the heaving mass in the shrubbery. "It'll die down," he said. "Like Bo-peep's lost sheep, they're better left alone. Let me see, what was I saying? Oh, about that Cup re-play, old man——"
He got no further, for at that moment the dishevelled victim of the Squirms' horseplay burst from the shrubbery and fastened his dirty hands frantically on the Prefect's knees.
"Oh, Harwood, please, they're murdering me—murdering me, I say. Send them back—take their sticks from them. I'm beaten black and blue!"
The boy's fat, unwholesome cheeks shook like those of an overfed man. His small eyes protruded with fear. Though bearing no visible sign of ill-usage, he looked the picture of abject terror.
"Get up, Mawdster—take your filthy paws off my breeks!" Harwood commanded, in disgust.
"But—but aren't you going to do anything for me, Harwood?"