“Yes. I suppose it was about that. We were all pals, you see, sir, and the rest of the house seemed satisfied that we’d take a fairish view of things, and so about a month ago, after we’d settled that something must be done, we just let every one know that they could appeal against any impot or caning that those two, Manton and Crossley, proposed to give, and we would decide. But then, you see, sir, if any one appeals, as I said, and the Court upholds the prefect, he gets it twice as hot. Hundred lines instead of fifty, etcetera. We’ve written it all out in a book. ‘Constitution of the Court of Appeal,’ so as to have it regular, and in case we forgot.” “Good gracious, it’s a constitution, is it!” asked Adams. David became slightly dignified. “Yes, we thought it better to put it on an orderly footing, sir,” he said, “and have everything regular, so that we shouldn’t contradict ourselves, and do one thing one time and another another. Also the fellows know what to expect. And, what’s more, we see that the impots are properly done if we confirm them. Canings, too. Why, one day Crossley caned a fellow”—David began to bubble with laughter again—“and he pretended to go to sleep and snore, and when Crossley told him it was all over, he pretended to awake, and said, ‘Hullo, morning already?’ Why, it’s a farce, sir; it’s sheer childish! What’s the use of caning a fellow if you don’t jolly well hurt him? So we took that out of the prefects’ hands and the impots get properly written, and fellows get properly whacked, if it’s a whacking. I don’t say it increases the respect in which the house holds those two little fellows at the top, but surely it’s better to have some authority than none!”