This was too much for the pent-up feelings of the Philosophers—not that they particularly resented Flitwick’s facetious allusions to myself—but in my capacity as President of the Club they felt called upon to support me.
“Shut up, cheap-jack!” cried Trimble defiantly. We had given ourselves away at last!
“Hullo,” cried Flitwick, “there’s somebody here! I wonder if those little cads of Sharpe’s have found out our place?”
“Your place!” thundered Warminster. “You knew it was ours. And we mean to kick you out.”
“Ho! ho! when are you going to begin?” shouted the twenty Urbans.
“Now,” yelled the twenty Philosophers.
A battle now seemed imminent, as fierce and disastrous as that fought four centuries before on the adjoining heath. The blood of both parties was up, and I might even have found myself engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with my old chum Dicky, had not Tempest unexpectedly appeared on the scene, like a bolt out of the blue.
He was pushing along his bicycle, and had evidently been attracted to the Bottom by the noise.
“What’s up?” he inquired, taking advantage of the temporary silence.
“Those day-boy cads have come and bagged our places and spoiled our fun,” said we.