“Let me jest come to you, you red-‘eaded—”
Roars of derision from the road.
“That’s Albert,” said Linton, jumping up.
“Yes, I heard them call him that,” said Barry. “McTodd and I were coming down here to tea, when they started going for us, so we nipped in here, hoping to find reinforcements.”
“We were just behind you,” said Stanning. “I got one of them a beauty. He went down like a shot.”
“Albert?” inquired Linton.
“No. A little chap.”
“Let’s go out, and smash them up,” suggested Linton excitedly.
Dunstable treated the situation more coolly.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “No hurry. Let’s finish tea at any rate. You’d better eat as much as you can now Linton. You may have no teeth left to do it with afterwards,” he added cheerfully.
“Let’s chuck things at them,” said McTodd.
“Don’t be an ass,” said Barry. “What on earth’s the good of that?”
“Well, it would be something,” said McTodd vaguely.
“Hit ‘em with a muffin,” suggested Stanning. “Dash, I barked my knuckles on that man. But I bet he felt it.”
“Look here, I’m going out,” said Linton. “Come on, Dunstable.”
Dunstable continued his meal without hurry.
“What’s the excitement?” he said. “There’s plenty of time. Dear old Albert’s not the sort of chap to go away when he’s got us cornered here. The first principle of warfare is to get a good feed before you start.”
“And anyhow,” said Barry, “I came here for tea, and I’m going to have it.”
Sergeant Cook was recalled from the door, and received the orders.
“They’ve just gone round the corner,” he said, “and that red-‘eaded one ‘e says he’s goin’ to wait if he ‘as to wait all night.”
“Quite right,” said Dunstable, approvingly. “Sensible chap, Albert. If you see him, you might tell him we shan’t be long, will you?”
A quarter of an hour passed.
“Kerm out,” shouted a voice from the street.
Dunstable looked at the others.
“Perhaps we might be moving now,” he said, getting up “Ready?”
“We must keep together,” said Barry.
“You goin’ out, Mr Dunstable?” inquired Sergeant Cook.
“Yes. Good bye. You’ll see that we’re decently buried won’t you?”
The garrison made its sortie.
It happened that Drummond and Sheen were also among those whom it had struck that afternoon that tea at Cook’s would be pleasant; and they came upon the combatants some five minutes after battle had been joined. The town contingent were filling the air with strange cries, Albert’s voice being easily heard above the din, while the Wrykinians, as public-school men should, were fighting quietly and without unseemly tumult.
“By Jove,” said Drummond, “here’s a row on.”
Sheen stopped dead, with a queer, sinking feeling within him. He gulped. Drummond did not notice these portents. He was observing the battle.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.
“Why, it’s some of our chaps! There’s a Seymour’s cap. Isn’t that McTodd? And, great Scott! there’s Barry. Come on, man!”
Sheen did not move.
“Ought we…to get…mixed up…?” he began.
Drummond looked at him with open eyes. Sheen babbled on.
“The old man might not like—sixth form, you see—oughtn’t we to—?”
There was a yell of triumph from the town army as the red-haired Albert, plunging through the fray, sent Barry staggering against the wall. Sheen caught a glimpse of Albert’s grinning face as he turned. He had a cut over one eye. It bled.
“Come on,” said Drummond, beginning to run to the scene of action.
Sheen paused for a moment irresolutely. Then he walked rapidly in the opposite direction.
V
THE WHITE FEATHER
