Fisher stared interrogatively.
“Well, then, are you Modern or Classic?”
“I don’t know, really,” said Fisher minor, wishing he knew which he ought to proclaim himself. Then making a bold venture, he said, “I believe Modern.”
“Good job for you,” said the youth; “saves me the trouble of kicking you. Can you lend me a bob? I’ll give it you back to-morrow as soon as I’ve unpacked.”
It did strike Fisher minor as queer that any one should pack shillings up in a trunk, but he was too pleased to oblige this important and fashionable-looking personage to raise any question.
“Yes. Can you give me change out of a half-crown? Or you can pay me the lot back to-morrow, I shan’t be wanting it till then,” said he.
“All serene, kid; I’m glad you are our side. I shall be able to give you a leg-up with the fellows. Whose house are you in?”
“Wakefield’s, the same as my brother.”
“What—then you must be a Classic! They’re all Classics at Wakefield’s. Why can’t you tell the truth when you’re asked, instead of a howling pack of lies?”
“I didn’t know, really, I thought—”