This last interjection was in answer to a fraternal kick from behind.
“You know who I am,” replied Clapperton. “Let me in!”
“Very sorry, Corder, we can’t let you in. Clapperton says we’re to cut you, because you played a jolly sight too well last week.”
“It’s not Corder, it’s me—Clapperton.”
“Go on! no larks, whoever you are. Clapperton’s got something better to do than go to tea-parties in fags’ rooms. Go and tell that to the Clap— Oh! ow! I mean, try it on next door!”
“I tell you what,” said Clapperton, whose temper, none of the best, was rapidly evaporating, “if you young cads don’t open the door instantly, I’ll break it open.”
“If you do, we’ll tell Clapperton. He’ll welt you for it. He won’t let you spoil our new paint, not if he knows it. Good old Clappy?”
A thundering kick was the only reply, which shook the plaster of the walls, and nearly sent Fisher minor headlong with terror off his perch.
This was getting serious. But in Percy’s judgment the time was not even yet ripe for extreme measures. The assailant might be given a little rope yet.
He took it, and worked himself into a childish passion against the refractory door, encouraged by the friendly gibes of the besieged. “Go it!”