“It is met,” droned the Council, with solemn intonation.
“Let us proceed then. What manner of man is thy father, O Wynne Rendall? Speak us fair, and do not seek to hide his calling.”
“I have not yet found out what manner of man he is,” replied Wynne, lightning quick to pick up the pedantry of his interrogator, “but it beseems me he is a fellow of heavy wit, who bears always a befrowning countenance. As to his calling he doth trade of import with our brothers of the Ind for the dried leaf of the tea plant.”
This speech composed and delivered with ceremony created something of an uproar. Cries were raised that the penalty of the parallel bars should be summarily inflicted. In the midst of a chaos of many voices the Chief of Council held up his hand for silence.
“Look here, young Rendall,” he said, “you’d better jolly chuck cheeking, or it will be the worse for you. You answer properly if you don’t want a putrid licking—which you’ll get anyway.”
“Then go on,” said Wynne, who was enjoying himself immensely. It was a new and delightful experience being the centre of attraction, and he felt he had the situation well in hand.
“Shall I proceed, gentlemen?”
“Go forward,” crooned the Council.
“Are you a gamesman or a swotter? Ponder well before replying, for much depends upon this.”
“I am not a gamesman.”