“Yah!” said Beetle. “They never really bully—‘Molly’ Fairburn didn’t. Only knock ’em about a little bit. That’s what they say. Only kick their souls out of ’em, and they go and blub in the box-rooms. Shove their heads into the ulsters an’ blub. Write home three times a day—yes, you brute, I’ve done that—askin’ to be taken away. You’ve never been bullied properly, Campbell. I’m sorry you made pax.”
“I’m not!” said Campbell, who was a humorist in a way. “Look out, you’re slaying Sefton!”
In his excitement Beetle had used the stump unreflectingly, and Sefton was now shouting for mercy.
“An’ you!” he cried, wheeling where he sat. “You’ve never been bullied, either. Where were you before you came here?”
“I—I had a tutor.”
“Yah! You would. You never blubbed in your life. But you’re blubbin’ now, by gum. Aren’t you blubbin’?”
“Can’t you see, you blind beast?” Sefton fell over sideways, tear-tracks furrowing the dried lather. Crack came the cricket-stump on the curved latter-end of him.
“Blind, am I,” said Beetle, “and a beast? Shut up, Stalky. I’m goin’ to jape a bit with our friend, à la ‘Molly’ Fairburn. I think I can see. Can’t I see, Sefton?”
“The point is well taken,” said McTurk, watching the strap at work. “You’d better say that he sees, Seffy.”
“You do—you can! I swear you do!” yelled Sefton, for strong arguments were coercing him.