standing in the middle of a crowd of choirboys and vergers and sextons and whatnot, putting the wretched Harold through it with no little vim. I had come in at the tail-end of what must have been a fairly fruity oration.
“Wretched boy! How dare you—”
“I got a sensitive skin!”
“This is no time to talk about your skin—”
“Somebody put a beetle down my back!”
“Absurd!”
“I felt it wriggling—”
“Nonsense!”
“Sounds pretty thin, doesn’t it?” said someone at my side.
It was Steggles, dash him. Clad in a snowy surplice or cassock, or whatever they call it, and wearing an expression of grave concern, the blighter had the cold, cynical crust to look me in the eyeball without a blink.
“Did you put a beetle down his neck?” I cried.
“Me!” said Steggles. “Me!”
Old Heppenstall was putting on the black cap.
“I do not credit a word of your story, wretched boy! I have warned you before, and now the time has come to act. You cease from this moment to be a member of my choir. Go, miserable child!”
Steggles plucked at my sleeve.