relentlessly.

'Young Wilson cheeked Perkins,' said Monk.

Murmurs of approval from the senior day-room. Perkins was one of the
ornaments referred to above.

'How?' asked Gethryn.

Wilson dashed into the conversation again.

'Perkins told me to go and get him some grub from the shop. I was doing
some work, so I couldn't. Besides, I'm not his fag. If Perkins wants to
go for me, why doesn't he do it himself, and not get about a hundred
fellows to help him?'

'Exactly,' said the Bishop. 'A very sensible suggestion. Perkins, fall
upon Wilson and slay him. I'll see fair play. Go ahead.'

'Er--no,' said Perkins uneasily. He was a small, weedy-looking youth,
not built for fighting except by proxy, and he remembered the episode
of Wilson and Skinner.

'Then the thing's finished,' said Gethryn. 'Wilson walks over. We
needn't detain you, Wilson.'

Wilson departed with all the honours of war, and the Bishop turned to
Monk.

'Now perhaps you'll tell me,' he said, 'what the deuce you and Danvers