There was a whistle of dismay at this. Sweeten’s fate was still fresh in the memory of some of the faggery.
“We’ll have to give him a leg-up,” was the general verdict.
“Oh, don’t let out I told you!” said I, beginning to get alarmed at the interest my revelation had evoked.
“Who’s going to say a word about you? We can back up the cock of our own house, I suppose, without asking your precious leave. You go and black Crofter’s boots. We’ll see old Tempest through.”
This was not at all what I wanted. I had at least hoped to be recognised as Tempest’s leading champion in this company. Whereas, here was I coolly shunted, my revelation coolly appropriated, and my services unceremoniously dispensed with. I did not like it at all.
“This dodge about stringing up Jarman’s guy,” said Trimble, “ought to help our man a bit. It’ll show we’re taking the matter up. By the way, Sarah’s not heard the latest—we’re going to blow him up as well as hang him.”
And they proceeded to explain that the guy was to be filled chock-full of fireworks and gunpowder, and his tongue to be made of touch-paper. Altogether, he was to be a most dangerous and explosive effigy; and I, as president of the Philosophical Conversation Club, was naturally selected to take charge of him.
I pleaded hard for a sub-committee to assist me, but they would not hear of it.
“It’ll only be a day or two,” said they, “to the Fifth of November. We’ll have his stuffing all in to-morrow—there’s almost enough fireworks left over from the picnic to load him. Then you can stow him away quiet somewhere till the day. Couldn’t you stick him under your bed?”
“Oh no, he might go off, you know,” said I; “or some one might see him. Besides, he’ll be too stout to go under.”