Peter's hatred
of him grew more intense week by week; some days after Mid-Term, it had
swollen into a passion. He finally told Bobby Galleon one day at luncheon
that on that very evening he was going to defy this Comber. Galleon
besought him not to do this, pointing out Comber's greater strength and the
natural tendency of the Lower School to follow their leader blindly. Peter
said nothing in reply but watched, when eight o'clock had struck and the
Lower School had assembled in the class room, for his moment. It was a
somewhat piteous spectacle. Comber and some half a dozen friends in the
middle of the room, and forty boys ranging in years from eight to twelve,
waiting with white faces and propitiatory smiles, eager to assist in the
Torture if they only might themselves be spared.
"Now you chaps," this from Comber--"we'll have a Gauntlet. I votes we make
young Beech run first."
"Rather! Come on, Beech--you've jolly well got to."
"Buck up, you funk!" from those relieved that they were themselves, for the
instant, safe.
Peter was sitting on a bench at the back of the room--he stood on the bench
and shouted, "You're a beast. Comber."
There was immediate silence--every one turned first to Comber, and then
back to Peter. Comber paused in the preparation of the string whip that he
was making, and his face was crimson.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98