Wynne had scarcely time to appreciate the anguish inflicted by the nose-twister before he found himself ignominiously drummed round the gymnasium at the knee of the frog-marcher. It was a jarring and painful means of progression, and almost he welcomed the narrow invitation of the parallel bars which loomed before him at the close of the second circuit.
The variety offered, however, was far from consoling, and during the few moments’ pressure in that inhospitable spot he feared his last hour had come. He was made to form a buffer in the middle, while three boys on either side, bracing their legs against the upright supports, pushed toward the centre with their united strength. He could feel his ribs caving inward and the breath was forced from his lungs. Respite came not a moment too soon, and when they drew away he hung over the bar in an ecstasy of exhaustion and nausea.
It was not until he heard the voice of the Chief announcing that he had borne the ordeal in honourable silence that he was aware he had forborne to scream.
“Help him to the circle,” came from a far-off voice, but he shook aside the proffered assistance and tottered to the circle unaided.
“Your bearing has been creditable,” said the Chief, “and that inclines us to leniency. Speak by the Goal-post and Fives Ball that the word may be fulfilled.”
Then said Wynne, with a somewhat hysterical catch in his voice:
“I swear by the Goal-post and the Fives Ball that to save myself the pain of offending you fools I’ll keep my hands out of my pockets for as long as you stupidly want.”
And the world became singularly black, the sky full of crimson stars, and he sat down awkwardly upon the floor with his head between his knees.
IV
It would be far from the truth to state that Wynne Rendall was popular at school. On account of the readiness of his wit and an adroit, if somewhat embittered, knack of turning a phrase, he achieved a kind of notoriety.