"Why not?"

"Because Oaks would jolly well punch both our heads."

"Well, here's a new kid coming; let's set him on to do it. You speak to
him; he knows me. His name's Mugford."

The two cronies both picked up a handful of stones, and began throwing
at the can, taking good care that their shots should fly wide of the
mark.

Mugford, who, as we have already seen, was not blessed with the sharpest
of wits, paused for a moment to watch the contest. The paint had been
mixed in an old fruit-tin, and at first sight it certainly seemed to
have been put on the post for the sole purpose of being knocked off
again.

"Hullo, you new kid!" exclaimed Mouler. "Look here, we want a chap for
the third eleven next season--a fellow who can throw straight. Come
along, and let's see if you can hit that old can."

It certainly looked easy enough, and Mugford, pleased at being taken
some notice of by a boy in the Upper Fourth, picked up some pebbles, and
joined in the bombardment. The second shot brought the tin down with a
great clatter, and a flood of white paint spread all over the trim
little pathway. At the same instant Oaks dashed down the steps boiling
with rage.

"Confound you!" he cried; "who did that ?"