“But we don’t know yet who this old weathercock is,” cried Whipcord, turning again to my uncle. “What do they call you at home, old Stick-in-the-mud?” and he nudged him in the ribs by way of emphasis.
It was time I interposed. Hitherto, in sheer helplessness, I had stood by and watched the invasion with silent despair. Now, however, that my uncle seemed to be in danger of rough handling, something must be done.
“If you fellows have any pretence to be called gentlemen,” I shouted, in tones choked with mingled shame and anger, “you will leave Jack’s room and mine.”
“Jack’s! who’s Jack? Is the old pawnbroker called Jack, then? Oh, I say, you fellows,” cried Whipcord, dropping on a chair, and nearly choking himself with a fit of laughter. “Oh, you fellows, I’ve got it at last. I’ve got it. Jack! I know who it is.”
“Who is it?” cried the others.
“Why, can’t you guess?” yelled Whipcord.
“No! Who?”
“Jack Ketch!”
This new idea was taken up with the utmost rapture, and my uncle was forthwith dubbed with his fresh title.
“Three cheers for Uncle Ketch, you fellows!” shouted Whipcord.