“Any boy who fags after this,” screamed Bramble, “will be cut dead! Those who promise hold up your hands—mind, it’s a promise!”
There was no mistaking the temper of the meeting, every hand in the room was held up.
“Mind now, no giving in!” cried Paul. “Let’s stick all together. Greenfield senior shall kill me before I do anything more for him!”
“Poor fellow!” whispered Oliver, laughing; “what a lot of martyrdoms he’ll have to put up with!”
“And Pembury shall kill me,” squealed the last comer, who had comforted himself with several crusts of plum-cakes and the dregs of about a dozen bottles of ginger-beer. And every one protested their willingness to die in the good cause.
At this stage Oliver and Wraysford withdrew unobserved. “I’m afraid we’ve been eavesdropping,” said Oliver. “Anyhow, I don’t mean to take advantage of what I’ve heard.”
“What a young ruffian your brother is!” said Wraysford; “he looked tremendously in earnest!”
“Yes, he always is. You’ll find he’ll keep his word far better than most of them.”
“If he does, I’m afraid Loman will make it unpleasant for him,” said Wraysford.
“Very likely.”