“Hullo, my ramrod-bunger!” began McTurk. “Where’s your dead dog? Is it Defence or Defiance?”
“Defiance,” said Stalky, and leaped on him at that word. “Look here, Turkey, you mustn’t rot the corps. We’ve arranged it beautifully. Foxy swears he won’t take us out into the open till we say we want to go.”
“Dis-gustin’ exhibition of immature infants apin’ the idiosyncrasies of their elders. Snff!”
“Have you drawn King, Beetle?” Stalky asked in a pause of the scuffle.
“Not exactly; but that’s his genial style.”
“Well, listen to your Uncle Stalky—who is a great man. Moreover and subsequently, Foxy’s goin’ to let us drill the corps in turn—privatim et seriatim—so that we’ll all know how to handle a half company anyhow. Ergo, an’ propter hoc, when we go to the Shop we shall be dismissed drill early; thus, my beloved ’earers, combinin’ education with wholesome amusement.”
“I knew you’d make a sort of extra-tu of it, you cold-blooded brute,” said McTurk. “Don’t you want to die for your giddy country?”
“Not if I can jolly well avoid it. So you mustn’t rot the corps.”
“We’d decided on that, years ago,” said Beetle, scornfully. “King’ll do the rottin’.”
“Then you’ve got to rot King, my giddy poet. Make up a good catchy Limerick, and let the fags sing it.”