“No, only one. I was nearly late, though. I waited an hour at the gymnasium, you know, and no Modern chaps came out at all.”
Percy began to smell rats.
“Waited at the gymnasium, did you? Who told you to do that?”
“Oh, you know—it was part of the canvassing.”
“Oh, you were in that job, were you, my boy? All serene, I’ll—”
“I say,” cried Fisher minor, turning pale, “aren’t you Wally Wheatfield? I thought—”
“Me Wally? what do you take me for? I’ll let you know who I am. You’re a beauty, you are. Some of our chaps’ll tell you who I am, Mr Canvasser. Now, look here, you stop there till I come back from Yorke’s. If you move an inch—whew! you’ll find the weather pretty warm, I can tell you. Canvassing? You’ll get canvassed, I fancy, before you grow much taller.”
And off stalked the indignant Percy, promising himself a particularly pleasant afternoon, as soon as his errand to the captain was over.
Yorke was at work, with his lexicon and notebooks on the table, when the envoy entered.
“Well, is that you or your brother?” inquired he.