“Aspinall would lick you left-handed at tennis, and knows more Greek than you know English,” said Dick, hotly; for he always looked upon the Devonshire boy as a credit to his protecting arm. “If you call that being a muff, well, he is one, and you aren’t, that’s all.”
Gosse received this judgment with attention, and went off to have a private look at Aspinall at close quarters.
“Oh, I say, Dick,” said Raggles, whom our heroes presently found absorbed in the deepest study; “here’s a go! We’ve only got to put down six in each form, and I’ve got a dozen down for ours, and don’t see I can cut any of them out.”
“Let’s hear their names,” said Dick.
“All serene! Raggles—”
“By Jove, that’s modest! You’re determined he’s to have one vote.”
“Oh, you know, I believe I’m safe; but, of course, everybody votes for himself.”
“Go on. Who are the rest?”
“Raggles, Culver, Pauncefote, Smith, Gosse, Starkey, Crisp, Calverly, Strahan, Jobling, Cazenove, and—well, I thought of sticking down one of you three for the twelfth.”
“Thanks,” said Dick. “We aren’t particular, are we, you chaps?”