“But I must!” Beetle was blackening with suppressed mirth.
“You won’t do it here, then.” He thrust the already limp Beetle through the cartshed window. It sobered him; one cannot laugh on a bed of nettles. Then Corkran stepped on his prostrate carcass, and McTurk followed, just as Beetle would have risen; so he was upset, and the nettles painted on his cheek a likeness of hideous eruptions.
“’Thought that ’ud cure you,” said Corkran, with a sniff.
Beetle rubbed his face desperately with dock-leaves, and said nothing. All desire to laugh had gone from him. They entered the lane.
Then a clamour broke from the barn—a compound noise of horse-like kicks, shaking of door-panels, and fivefold yells.
“They’ve found it out,” said Corkran. “How strange!” He sniffed again.
“Let ’em,” said Beetle. “No one can hear ’em. Come on up to Coll.”
“What a brute you are, Beetle! You only think of your beastly self. Those cows want milkin’. Poor dears! Hear ’em low,” said McTurk.
“Go back and milk ’em yourself, then.” Beetle danced with pain. “We shall miss call-over, hangin’ about like this; an’ I’ve got two black marks this week already.”
“Then you’ll have fatigue-drill on Monday,” said Corkran. “Come to think of it, I’ve got two black marks aussi. Hm! This is serious. This is hefty serious.”