“Beasts!” he ejaculated.
“Wheatfield,” said Mr Forder, who was in charge of the class, “write me out fifty lines of the Paradise Lost and a letter of apology in Latin for using bad language in class.”
Percy was conducted home by his friends that morning in a critical state. He felt it necessary to kick somebody, and therefore kicked them; and they, entirely misunderstanding his motives, kicked back. Consequently, a good deal of time was occupied in arranging matters all round on a comfortable footing; by the end of which time the fraternity, though marred in visage, felt generally easier in its mind.
It was no use appealing to the Modern prefects. They had made a mess of it so far, and weren’t to be trusted. Nor did the course of lodging a complaint with Yorke commend itself to the company. It might be mistaken for telling tales. How would it do to—
Here entered Robert, the school porter, with a letter addressed “Wheatfield minor, Mr Forder’s,” in a scholarly hand.
“Wheatfield minor,” snarled Percy; “that’s not me, Bob. What do you take me for! Here, take it over to Wakefield’s, and look about for the dirtiest, ugliest, beastliest kid you can see. That’s Wheatfield minor.”
“You’ll be sore to know him by his likeness to Percy,” added Cash, by way of encouragement.
“But Wakefield’s ain’t Forder’s,” observed the sage Robert. “Look what the envelope says.”
True; it must be meant for Percy after all.
“You go and tell him it’s like his howling cheek to call me minor, whoever it is; and when I catch him I’ll welt him. Do you hear?”