“One good job—the Common-room hate this as much as we do. Watch King wrigglin’ to get out of the draft.”
“Where’s the Raymondiferous Martin? Punctuality, my beloved ’earers, is the image o’ war—”
“Shut up. Here’s the giddy Dook. Golly, what a dewlap!” Mr. Martin, in evening dress, was undeniably throaty—a tall, generously designed, pink-and-white man. Still, Beetle need not have been coarse.
“Look at his back while he’s talkin’ to the Head. Vile bad form to turn your back on the audience! He’s a Philistine—a Bopper—a Jebusite—an’ a Hivite.” McTurk leaned back and sniffed contemptuously.
In a few colorless words, the Head introduced the speaker and sat down amid applause. When Mr. Martin took the applause to himself, they naturally applauded more than ever. It was some time before he could begin. He had no knowledge of the school—its tradition or heritage. He did not know that the last census showed that eighty per cent. of the boys had been born abroad—in camp, cantonment, or upon the high seas; or that seventy-five per cent. were sons of officers in one or other of the services—Willoughbys, Paulets, De Castros, Maynes, Randalls, after their kind—looking to follow their fathers’ profession. The Head might have told him this, and much more; but, after an hour-long dinner in his company, the Head decided to say nothing whatever. Mr. Raymond Martin seemed to know so much already.
He plunged into his speech with a long-drawn, rasping “Well, boys,” that, though they were not conscious of it, set every young nerve ajar. He supposed they knew—hey?—what he had come down for? It was not often that he had an opportunity to talk to boys. He supposed that boys were very much the same kind of persons—some people thought them rather funny persons—as they had been in his youth.
“This man,” said McTurk, with conviction, “is the Gadarene Swine.”
But they must remember that they would not always be boys. They would grow up into men, because the boys of to-day made the men of to-morrow, and upon the men of to-morrow the fair fame of their glorious native land depended.
“If this goes on, my beloved ’earers, it will be my painful duty to rot this bargee.” Stalky drew a long breath through his nose.
“Can’t do that,” said McTurk. “He ain’t chargin’ anything for his Romeo.”