“To turn the gas on to the kitchens,” said Cokey. “If so be I didn’t turn her on, yeou young gen’lemen ’ud be larnin’ your book by candlelight.”
“Um!” said Stalky, and was silent for at least a minute.
“Hullo! Where are you chaps going?” A bend of the lane brought them face to face with Tulke, senior prefect of King’s house—a smallish, white-haired boy, of the type that must be promoted on account of its intellect, and ever afterwards appeals to the Head to support its authority when zeal has outrun discretion.
The three took no sort of notice. They were on lawful pass. Tulke repeated his question hotly, for he had suffered many slights from Number Five study, and fancied that he had at last caught them tripping.
“What the devil is that to you?” Stalky replied with his sweetest smile.
“Look here, I’m not goin’—I’m not goin’ to be sworn at by the Fifth!” sputtered Tulke.
“Then cut along and call a prefects’ meeting,” said McTurk, knowing Tulke’s weakness.
The prefect became inarticulate with rage.
“Mustn’t yell at the Fifth that way,” said Stalky. “It’s vile bad form.”
“Cough it up, ducky!” McTurk said calmly.