they were slid into the sacks they only mumbled, with rolling heads, through sticky lips and snored on.
'Port?' said Mr. Wontner virtuously.
'Nervous exhaustion. They aren't much more than kids, after all. What's next?' said Stalky.
'I want to take 'em away with me, please.'
Stalky looked at him with respect.
'I'll have my car round in five minutes,' said The Infant. 'Ipps'll help carry 'em downstairs,' and he shook Mr. Wontner by the hand.
We were all perfectly serious till the two bundles were dumped on a divan in the hall, and the boys waked and began to realise what had happened.
'Yah!' said Mr. Wontner, with the simplicity of twelve years old. Who's scored now?' And he sat upon them. The tension broke in a storm of laughter, led, I think, by Ipps.
'Asinine—absolutely asinine!' said Mr. Wontner, with folded arms from his lively chair. But he drank in the flattery and the fellowship of it all with quite a brainless grin, as we rolled and stamped round him, and wiped the tears from our cheeks.
'Hang it!' said Bobby Trivett. 'We're defeated!'
'By tactics, too,' said Eames. 'I didn't think you knew 'em, Clausewitz. It's a fair score. What are you going to do with us?'
'Take you back to Mess,' said Mr. Wontner.
'Not like this?'
'Oh no. Worse—much worse! I haven't begun with you yet. And you thought you'd scored! Yah!'
