“Two to one on his boots!”
“Keep your temper!”
“Come in!” “Stick to it!” “One more and you’ll do it!” and so on.
It was hardly likely that the spectacle of the captain of the house in a towering rage, toying to kick his way into a fag’s room, would long be allowed to continue unheeded by the rest of the inhabitants of Forder’s, and in a very short time new voices without apprised the beleaguered garrison that the enemy was sitting down in force.
Brinkman’s voice could be heard demanding admission, and presently Dangle’s; while a posse of mercenary middle-boys relieved Clapperton of the kicking. The stout old door held out bravely and defied all their efforts.
Presently a pause was made, and Dangle’s voice outside was heard demanding a parley.
“Young Wheatfield,” he said, “it will be wiser for you to open the door at once. If you don’t it will be broken open, and you needn’t expect to get off easy then. Take my advice, and don’t be a fool.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Percy. “I and my chaps are just going to sit down to tea. Wish you could join us, whoever you are. We’ve got as much right to have tea in our study as you have in yours. That’s right! Kick away! Never mind the varnish! Somebody tapping at the study door.”
“It’s no good wasting time over young asses like them,” Brinkman was heard to say.
“I don’t mean to go now,” said Clapperton. “They shall have such a hiding, all of them, as they won’t forget in a hurry.”