“Out of bounds. Bounds beastly strict these days, too. Besides, we shall cat.” Beetle sniffed the cheroot critically. “It’s a regular Pomposo Stinkadore.”
“You can; I shan’t. What d’you say, Turkey?”
“Oh, may’s well, I s’pose.”
“Chuck on your cap, then. It’s two to one. Beetle, out you come!”
They saw a group of boys by the notice-board in the corridor; little Foxy, the school sergeant, among them.
“More bounds, I expect,” said Stalky. “Hullo, Foxibus, who are you in mournin’ for?” There was a broad band of crape round Foxy’s arm.
“He was in my old regiment,” said Foxy, jerking his head towards the notices, where a newspaper cutting was thumb-tacked between call-over lists.
“By gum!” quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. “It’s old Duncan—Fat-Sow Duncan—killed on duty at something or other Kotal. ‘Rallyin’ his men with conspicuous gallantry.’ He would, of course. ‘The body was recovered.’ That’s all right. They cut ’em up sometimes, don’t they, Foxy?”
“Horrid,” said the sergeant briefly.
“Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make to us, Foxy?”