“How d’you manage when he’s asleep?” said Crandall, chuckling.
“Shove a cold cleek down his neck.”
“It was a wet sponge when I was junior in the dormitory... Hullo! What’s happening?”
The darkness had filled with whispers, the sound of trailing rugs, bare feet on bare boards, protests, giggles, and threats such as:
“Be quiet, you ass!... Squattez-vous on the floor, then!... I swear you aren’t going to sit on my bed!... Mind the tooth-glass,” etc.
“Sta—Corkran said,” the prefect began, his tone showing his sense of Stalky’s insolence, “that perhaps you’d tell us about that business with Duncan’s body.”
“Yes—yes—yes,” ran the keen whispers. “Tell us”
“There’s nothing to tell. What on earth are you chaps hoppin’ about in the cold for?”
“Never mind us,” said the voices. “Tell about Fat-Sow.”
So Crandall turned on his pillow and spoke to the generation he could not see.