“Yours truly,—
“Cecil Yorke.”
“There’s the answer. Take it over at once.”
“I like his style,” growled Percy to himself. “He don’t seem to have a ‘please’ about him. Catch me hurrying myself for him; I’ve got this precious canvasser to look after.”
And he returned at a leisurely pace to the rendezvous.
No Fisher minor was there!
That young gentleman, when left to himself, found himself in a perspiration of doubt and fear. He had made a most awkward blunder, and confessed the delinquencies of his comrades to the very last man they would wish to know of them. That was bad enough; but, to make things worse, he was to be let in for the blame of the whole affair, and, with Master Percy’s assistance, was shortly to experience warm weather among the Moderns.
Happy thought! He would not stay where he was. He would retire, as the Latin book said, into winter quarters, and entrench himself in the stronghold of Wally and D’Arcy and Ashby. If he was to get it hot, he would sooner get it from them than from the barbarians in Forder’s.
With which desperate conclusion, and once more devoutly wishing himself safe at home, he made tracks, at a rapid walk, to Wally’s room. His three comrades were all there.
“What’s up?” said they as he entered, with agitated face.