“’Think so? Well, that’s awfully good of you, De Vitré. ’Pon my sainted Sam, that’s awfully good of you,” said Corkran, shouldering into the centre of the warmth and toasting one slippered foot before the blaze. “So you really think we might tell you?”
They stared at the coals and shook with deep, delicious chuckles.
“My Hat! We were stalky,” said McTurk. “I swear we were about as stalky as they make ’em. Weren’t we?”
“It was a frabjous Stalk,” said Beetle. “’Much too good to tell you brutes, though.”
The form wriggled under the insult, but made no motion to avenge it. After all, on De Vitré’s showing, the three had saved the raiders from at least a public licking.
“It wasn’t half bad,” said Corkran. “Stalky is the word.”
“You were the really stalky one,” said McTurk, one contemptuous shoulder turned to a listening world. “By Gum! you were stalky.”
Corkran accepted the compliment and the name together. “Yes,” said he; “keep your eye on your Uncle Stalky an’ he’ll pull you through.”
“Well, you needn’t gloat so,” said De Vitré, viciously; “you look like a stuffed cat.”
Corkran, henceforth known as Stalky, took not the slightest notice, but smiled dreamily.