“Can’t they? You don’t know my young brother Wally as well as I do. He’ll do something, bless you; but I rather fancy they won’t have it all to themselves. We’ll put a spoke in their wheels.”
“Look here, young Wheatfield,” said Clapperton, put out by the obtuseness of his fag, “the long and short of it is you’re not to go. You know what’s happened. Our side has been snubbed and cut out of the games by those fellows; and now they want to get us to come to their precious meeting to help them collar the clubs.”
“That’s just why I and my chaps are going to turn up,” said Percy. “We’ll let them know!”
“Do you hear what I say? You’re not to go, you or any of them. If you can’t understand the reason, I dare say you’ll understand a thrashing. You’ll get it unless you stand out like the rest of us.”
“I say, what’s the Latin for ‘wrong,’ Clapperton?”
“Do you hear what I say?”
“Yes, yes—is it ‘malus,’ or ‘unrectus,’ or what?”
“Are you going to do what I tell you?”
“How can I say what the chaps’ll do?”
“You must tell them; you’re fags’ captain. They must do what you tell them.”