Seated on a high horizontal bar, at the far end, sat the four members who composed the Council. Beneath them, gathered in rough formations, were other boys whose duty it was to carry out the Council’s awards. These were the executioneers, and each was skilled in his craft. Whether the decree went forth in favour of scragging, knee jarring, or wrist-twisting there was an expert to conduct it upon orthodox lines. The faces of the Council, though not remarkable, were stern and resolute, and bespoke a proper appreciation for the dignity of office.
“Bring him forward,” said a very plain lad, who wore round pebble spectacles, and appeared to be leader of the movement.
With no great courtesy Wynne was thrust forward to a chalk circle in the centre of the floor.
“You mustn’t come out of the circle until you have permission,” was a further instruction received. The escort drew away and stood with folded arms as befitted a stern occasion.
“What is your name?” said he of the spectacles.
“Wynne Rendall.”
“Wynne Rendall?”
“Yes.”
“Gentlemen, you heard! Can we permit the name of Wynne? Does it belong to the same category of nomenclature as Eric, Archibald and Desmond, which we have already black-listed?”
There followed a murmur of assent.