Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I sauntered out on to the porch.
“Cool off, old boy,” whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction of Moody Barn—“cool off; you need it;” and his ample mouth stretched into a sneering grin.
I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.
“Cuthbert,” said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some distance down the road, “I am not going on that trip.”
“Not going!” replied he, with surprise; “why, you’ll have to go.”
“But I won’t go, and that settles it. It’s confounded unjust that we’re sent, anyhow, and I don’t propose to stand it.”
“I think so too,” answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; “but what’ll we do? We’ll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that’s the worst of it.”
“Well, I’ll be spokesman, and I’ll lie before I’ll go on that trip.”
I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes, we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One hour and a half we allowed—an abundant limit. During this time I had completely “cooled off,” and had schooled myself to that point where I could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience. Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower. Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood before him.
