“Then go on,” said Wynne, who was enjoying himself immensely. It was a new and delightful experience being the centre of attraction, and he felt he had the situation well in hand. “Shall I proceed, gentlemen?” “Go forward,” crooned the Council. “Are you a gamesman or a swotter? Ponder well before replying, for much depends upon this.” “I am not a gamesman.” “Mark his utterance, O men. Thou art, then, a swotter.” “I didn’t say so. Don’t even know what a swotter is.” “Explain,” said the Chief. And one of the four, a freckled lad with red hair and a big healthy body, announced: “A swotter is the sort of ass who mugs at lessons and thinks more of books than footer.” “The Council will sing the Song of the Swotter,” said the Chief. So the Council sang— “The swotter is a rotter, And we always make it hotter For the swotter who’s a rotter— Yes, we do.” “Yes, we do,” was repeated by all present. When this impressive rendering was over, Wynne replied: “I think I am a swotter all right.” “Be it remembered,” said the Chief. “Little remains to be said. The C. I. D. will now report on this miscreant’s behaviour since arrival.” Whereupon a foxy little boy came forward from one of the groups, and after making a profound obeisance to the Council began: “He has worn his cap on the back of his head and put his hands in his trousers’ pocket. I have been to his bedder, and he wears a woollen nightshirt and combinations instead of pants and vest.” Wynne felt himself flush with hot anger and resentment, and heard an expression of disgust from all present. “Are these things true, O most wretched Wynne Rendall?” “Yes, they are, but how dared that beastly little swine touch my box?” “Be silent—scrag him—scrag the swotter,” came from all sides. “I don’t care—he’s a dirty little—” “Pin him,” ordered the Chief, with a gesture so commanding that he all but fell from his perch. Very adroitly two volunteers stepped forward and twisted Wynne’s wrists under his shoulder blades, while a third, with a skill which would have defied the ingenuity of the Davenport Brothers, made fast his hands with a knotted kerchief. The work accomplished they stood aside and refolded their arms. “Pass judgment,” they demanded.