“I’m only to be called Pompey, mind,” said Ted; “mind that. We are to win if we can.”
“Of course;” and so this delicate point was settled after very nearly leading to an immediate battle.
“Hurrah for Pompey!” shouted George, throwing up his hat.
“Hurrah for Caesar!” said Bill, hurling up his. This was the signal for a general shouting and uproar. They had been quiet ten minutes, and were obliged to let off their suppressed energy. There was a wild capering round the oak.
“Ted Pompey,” said Charlie, little and impudent, “what fun it will be to see you run away!” For which he had his ears pulled till he squealed.
“Now,” shouted Mark, “let’s get it all done. Come on.” The noise subsided somewhat, and they gathered round as Ted and Bevis began to talk again.
“Caesar,” said Phil to Bevis, “if you’re Caesar and Ted’s Pompey, who are we? We ought to have names too.”
“I’m Mark Antony,” said Mark, standing bolt upright.
“Very well,” said Bevis. “Phil, you can be—let me see, Varro.”
“All right, I’m Varro,” said Phil; “and who’s Val? Oh, I know,”—running names over in his mind,—“he’s Crassus. Val Crassus, do you hear?”