“Yes, we are,” said William belligerently, “an’——an’ I don’t care if you tellem.”
“Oh, I shan’t tell them,” said the famous cousin carelessly. “I’ve thought far worse things about Georgie than you could ever put into words.”
“Uh?” said William, surprised.
“You only see him occasionally. For this week I’ve seen him every day.”
“Uh?” said William again.
“I’ve suffered,” went on the famous cousin, “more deeply than you can ever have suffered. Georgie is, as it were, branded into my very soul. I have often wondered why—My hands, of course, are tied. I am the guest of Georgie’s parents. Battery and assault upon Georgie would therefore ill become me. But you——” he looked at them scornfully—“that one—two—three—four boys your size can continue to allow Georgie to exist as he is passes my comprehension.”
“’S’all very well talkin’ like that,” said William indignantly, “but he’s such a little sneak! We can’t do anythin’ to him that he doesn’t go an’ tell our mothers an’ then we get into trouble an’ he gets more sickenin’ than ever.”
“Sickniner an’ sickniner,” murmured Henry again dejectedly.
“I see,” said the stranger judicially, “I fully appreciate the difficulty.... Er—may I join the conference?”
He entered the summer-house and sat down next William.