Finch was staggered. This was something new. Piers, of all people, after him about prayers! There was something ominous about it.
"I forgot," he returned, heavily.
"Well, you've no right to forget. It's an important thing at your time of life to pray long and earnestly. If you prayed more and sulked less, you'd be healthier and happier."
"Rot. What are you givin' us?"
"I'm in dead earnest. Out you get and say your prayers."
"You don't pray yourself," complained Finch, bitterly. "You haven't said prayers for years."
"That's nothing to you. I've a special compact with the Devil, and he looks after his own. But you, my little lamb, must be separated from the goats."
"Oh, let me alone," growled Finch. "I'm sleepy. Let me alone."
"Get up and say your prayers."
"Oh, Piers, don't be a—"
"Be careful what you call me. Get out."
"Shan't." He clutched the blankets desperately, for he feared what was coming.
"You won't get up, eh? You won't say your prayers, eh? I've got to force you, eh?"
With each question Piers's strong fingers sought a tenderer spot in Finch's anatomy.
"Oh—oh—oh! Piers! Please let me up! Ow-eee-ee!" With a last terrible squeak Finch was out on the floor. He stood rubbing his side cautiously. Then he almost blubbered: "What the hell do you want me to do, anyway?"
"I want you to say your prayers properly. I'm not going to have you start being lax at your age. Down on your knees."
