“I do think you an ass already,” said the senior, “so, out with it.”
Whereupon Dick, blushing deeply, told him the whole story in a way which quite captivated the listener by its artlessness.
“They said you were an awful muff, and couldn’t run any faster than a snail, you know,”—began he—“and as I had pulled off the new boys’ race, they said they’d make me Whipper-in of the Harriers instead of you, and told me to come and tell you so, and ask you to give me the whip.”
Cresswell laughed in spite of himself.
“Do you really want it?” he asked.
“Not now, thank you.”
“I suppose you’d been swaggering after you’d won the race, and they wanted to take the conceit out of you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And have they succeeded?”
“Well—yes,” said Dick. “I think they have.”