“Under pretext of studying literature, a desultory and unformed mind would naturally return, like the dog of Scripture——”
“‘You’re a damned trencher-scrapin’, napkin-carryin’, shillin’-seekin’, up-an-down-stairs &c.’” Howell breathed.
Beetle choked aloud on the sudden knowledge that King was the ancient and eternal Chucks—later Count Shucksen—of Peter Simple. He had not realised it before.
“Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’ve been asleep, sir,” he sputtered.
The shout of the Army Class diverted the storm. King was grimly glad that Beetle had condescended to honour truth so far. Perhaps he would now lend his awakened ear to a summary of the externals of Dr. Johnson, as limned by Macaulay. And he read, with intention, the just historian’s outline of a grotesque figure with untied shoe-strings, that twitched and grunted, gorged its food, bit its finger-nails, and neglected its ablutions. The Form hailed it as a speaking likeness of Beetle; nor were they corrected.
Then King implored him to vouchsafe his comrades one single fact connected with Dr. Johnson which might at any time have adhered to what, for decency’s sake, must, Mr. King supposed, be called his mind.
Beetle was understood to say that the only thing he could remember was in French.
“You add, then, the Gallic tongue to your accomplishments? The information plus the accent? ’Tis well! Admirable Crichton, proceed!”
And Beetle proceeded with the text of an old Du Maurier drawing in a back-number of Punch:
“De tous ces défunts cockolores