Cedric quailed before these dread tidings. The knife was a most important affair, and boasted a handle of bird’s-eye maple of unequalled loveliness. It was reputed that this knife would kill a man, and its possession had excited an interest in Cedric that might well dissipate with its passing. Wherefore, in a trembling fashion, he replied: “My sister gave it to me.” Lipchitty was very properly disgusted. “The sort of soppy thing she would do,” he replied, and brought a flush of resentment to Cedric’s round little face. “’Tany rate, I’m going to have it.” “You aren’t. You shan’t.” “If you don’t give it to me there’ll be a jolly fine licking for you.” Cedric weighed his chances before replying. “You’re not much bigger than me; p’r’aps you’d get licked if you tried.” “Don’t mean to try,” responded the base Lipchitty; “I shall get Monkton major to do it for me, and he’ll half kill you.” Monkton major was no idle threat—a fellow of vast proportions with a gross and sullen countenance. In imagination Cedric saw his beloved possession float over the horizon, but he made one final effort. “Why should he lick me? I haven’t done anything.” “I shall give him some silkworms to do it,” announced Lipchitty. The system was exposed. Terrorism at a price. Wynne Rendall’s quick brain seized on the flaw, and was away with it in a second. “Right!” he interrupted, “then I’ll give him a fountain pen not to do it.” “You shut up,” warned Lipchitty, but there was alarm in his voice. “I shall.” “You’d better not. If you do I’ll give him a Brownie to lick you.” Wynne laughed. “Then,” he said, “I’ll give him five and six to lick you.” Lipchitty trembled, for the price was rising out of all expectation. Dared he bounce it another sixpence and overthrow his opponent? The risk was great, so he temporized with— “How much have you got? I warn you I’ve ten bob, so you’d better look out!” Ten bob! The game was in Wynne’s hands. With cruel leisure Wynne produced his adored letter-case and took out the five-pound note. “That’s done you,” he cried. The sight of so much wealth staggered Master Lipchitty, who with a mumbled unpleasantry started to move away. But the spirit of reprisals was upon Wynne, and he called on him to stop. “Look here, Lipchitty, I haven’t done with you. You started this business, and now you are going to finish it. It was you who made me out a fool before the Council by sneaking into my box. Very well, you’ve jolly well got to swop a pair of pyjamas for one of my nightshirts or I’ll give Monkton major ten and six to lick you silly.” That night Wynne slept very honourably in a coat and trousers of delicate striped taffeta, while Lipchitty mumbled in his sleep and dreamed lurid dreams of knife-thrusts in dark corridors, and enemies cast unsuspectingly into the yawning shaft of the _oubliette_. V