“You shut up,” warned Lipchitty, but there was alarm in his voice.
“I shall.”
“You’d better not. If you do I’ll give him a Brownie to lick you.”
Wynne laughed. “Then,” he said, “I’ll give him five and six to lick you.”
Lipchitty trembled, for the price was rising out of all expectation. Dared he bounce it another sixpence and overthrow his opponent? The risk was great, so he temporized with—
“How much have you got? I warn you I’ve ten bob, so you’d better look out!”
Ten bob! The game was in Wynne’s hands. With cruel leisure Wynne produced his adored letter-case and took out the five-pound note.
“That’s done you,” he cried.
The sight of so much wealth staggered Master Lipchitty, who with a mumbled unpleasantry started to move away. But the spirit of reprisals was upon Wynne, and he called on him to stop.
“Look here, Lipchitty, I haven’t done with you. You started this business, and now you are going to finish it. It was you who made me out a fool before the Council by sneaking into my box. Very well, you’ve jolly well got to swop a pair of pyjamas for one of my nightshirts or I’ll give Monkton major ten and six to lick you silly.”