"Why don't you tell him yourself?" asked Biden, whose teeth seemed to
project farther and farther from his mouth as his indignation grew.

"All right, Toothy Biden," jeered Rodber. "We'll tell the whole of your
rotten army at four o'clock, when we give you the biggest lamming you've
ever had. Come on, young Fane," he went on, and Michael, somewhat
perturbed by the prospect of being involved in these encounters,
followed at his heels.

"Look here," said Rodber presently, "you'd better come and show
yourself to Pearson. He's the captain of our army; and for goodness'
sake look a bit cheerful."

Michael forced an uncomfortable grin such as photographers conjure.

Under the shade of a gigantic tree stood Pearson the leader, languidly
eating a very small and very unripe pear.

"Hullo, Pinky," he drawled.

"I say, Pearson," said Rodber in a reverent voice, "I know this kid at
home. He's awfully keen to be allowed to join your army."

Pearson scarcely glanced at Michael.

"All right. Swear him in. I've got a new oath written down in a book at
home, but he can take the old one."

Pearson yawned and threw away the core of the pear.

"He's awfully glad he's going to join your army, Pearson. Aren't you,
young Fane?"

"Yes, awfully glad," Michael echoed.

"It's the best army," said Pearson simply.

"Oh, easily," Rodber agreed. "I say, Pearson, that kid Biden said Church
was going to lam you at four o'clock."

The offended Pearson swallowed a large piece of a second unripe pear and
scowled.

"Did he? Tell the army to line up behind the lav. at four o'clock."

Rodber's eyes gleamed.

"I say, Pearson, I've got an awfully ripping plan. Supposing we ambush
them."

"How?" enquired the commander.

"Why, supposing we put young Fane and two or three more new kids by the
tuckshop door and tell them to run towards the haunted house, we could
cop them simply rippingly."

"Give the orders before afternoon school," said Pearson curtly, and just
then the bell for 'second hour' sounded.

"Wait for me at half-past twelve," Rodber shouted to Michael as he ran
to get into school.

Michael grew quite feverish during 'second hour' and his brain whirled
with the imagination of battles, so that the landing of Julius Caesar
seemed of minor importance. Tuckshops and haunted houses and doors and
ambushes and the languid pale-faced Pearson occupied his thoughts fully
enough. At a quarter-past twelve Mr. Whichelo the First Form