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.
“In that case,” he said, “those bets, you know—I’m afraid you lose your money, dear old boy. It’s a pity you didn’t