“Yes—not longer.”
“Now, kid,” said Tempest, when we were left alone, “how long are you going to play the fool? Take your time; but let us know when you’ve done, that’s all.”
“Really, I’m not fooling; I know I ought to have had on the lavender—”
Tempest laughed. A jolly laugh it was, though it frequently preceded a licking.
“You mean to say you sucked in all that rot? I thought I’d just see how far you’d let yourself be humbugged; I’m sorry I didn’t tell you to stand on your head. I don’t doubt you’d have done it.”
I had painful reason to think he might be right.
“Why, even Dicky Brown was too old a bird for that sort of chaff,” said Tempest; “he twigged it at once—and he’s a day boy. Hand me that cane out of the cricket box, there’s a good fellow, and hold out your hand. Don’t yell; only muffs do that.”
“What?” I exclaimed, “am I to be licked, Dux?”
“Don’t call me Dux here. Yes, rather—three on each hand.”
“But Mr Sharpe only said—”