“An’ both of ’em led to adversity,
Which nobody can deny!”
“You be quiet, young gentlemen. If you can’t ’elp—don’t ’inder.” Foxy’s eye was still on the council by the horse. Carter, White, and Tyrrell, all boys of influence, had joined it. The rest fingered the rifles irresolutely. “Wait a shake,” cried Stalky. “Can’t we turn out those rotters before we get to work?”
“Certainly,” said Foxy. “Any one wishful to join will stay ’ere. Those who do not so intend will go out, quietly closin’ the door be’ind ’em.”
Half a dozen of the earnest-minded rushed at them, and they had just time to escape into the corridor.
“Well, why don’t you join?” Beetle asked, resettling his collar.
“Why didn’t you?”
“What’s the good? We aren’t goin’ up for the Army. Besides, I know the drill—all except the manual, of course. ’Wonder what they’re doin’ inside?”
“Makin’ a treaty with Foxy. Didn’t you hear Stalky say: ‘That’s what we’ll do—an’ if he don’t like it he can lump it’? They’ll use Foxy for a cram. Can’t you see, you idiot? They’re goin’ up for Sandhurst or the Shop in less than a year. They’ll learn their drill an’ then they’ll drop it like a shot. D’you suppose chaps with their amount of extra-tu are takin’ up volunteerin’ for fun?”
“Well, I don’t know. I thought of doin’ a poem about it—rottin’ ’em, you know—‘The Ballad of the Dogshooters’—eh?”
“I don’t think you can, because King’ll be down on the corps like a cartload o’ bricks. He hasn’t been consulted, he’s sniffin’ round the notice-board now. Let’s lure him.” They strolled up carelessly towards the house-master—a most meek couple.