“Oh, I say, it’s all because you and your brother are so alike. I met him just now; and—he’s heard about that canvassing, you know, and I thought you’d like to know.”
“You mean to say you blabbed?” said Wally, jumping to his feet.
“It’s your fault,” said D’Arcy. “I’ve made the same mistake myself. Why can’t you grow a moustache or something to distinguish you?”
“Why can’t you get your brother to be a Classic! then it wouldn’t matter—either of you would do,” suggested Ashby.
Ashby was beginning to feel quite at home in Wakefield’s.
“I’ll let some of you see if it won’t matter,” retorted Wally. “If they’ve got wind of that affair the other side, there’ll be a fearful row. They’ll want another election. Oh, you young idiot! That comes of trusting a new kid, that sings comic songs, and parts his hair the wrong side, with a secret. D’Arcy’s nearly as big an ass as you are yourself, to trust you.”
After this Philippic, Wally felt a little better, and was ready to consider what had better be done.
“He’s bound to come here, you chaps,” said he. “You cut. Leave him to me—I’ll tackle him.”
Fisher minor considered this uncommonly good advice, and obeyed it with alacrity. The other two followed less eagerly. They would have liked to stay and see the fun.
As Wally expected, his affectionate relative, being baulked of his prey outside, came to pay a fraternal visit.