“Why—what the—where the—?”
The rattle of Sniders, slammed into the rack, drowned his voice, as boy after boy fell out.
“I—I don’t know that I shan’t have to report this to the Head,” he stammered.
“Report, then, and be damned to you,” cried Stalky, white to the lips, and ran out.
“Rummy thing!” said Beetle to McTurk. “I was in the study, doin’ a simply lovely poem about the Jelly-Bellied Flag-Flapper, an’ Stalky came in, an’ I said ‘Hullo!’ an’ he cursed me like a bargee, and then he began to blub like anything. Shoved his head on the table and howled. Hadn’t we better do something?”
McTurk was troubled. “P’raps he’s smashed himself up somehow.”
They found him, with very bright eyes, whistling between his teeth.
“Did I take you in, Beetle? I thought I would. Wasn’t it a good draw? Didn’t you think I was blubbin’? Didn’t I do it well? Oh, you fat old ass!” And he began to pull Beetle’s ears and checks, in the fashion that was called “milking.”
“I knew you were blubbin’,” Beetle replied, composedly. “Why aren’t you at drill?”
“Drill! What drill?”