“That means a prefects’ meeting—sure pop,” said Stalky. “Honor of the Sixth involved, and all the rest of it. Tulke’ll write notes all this afternoon, and Carson will call us up after tea. They daren’t overlook that.”
“Bet you a bob he follows us!” said McTurk. “He’s King’s pet, and it’s scalps to both of ’em if we’re caught out. We must be virtuous.”
“Then I move we go to Mother Yeo’s for a last gorge. We owe her about ten bob, and Mary’ll weep sore when she knows we’re leaving,” said Beetle.
“She gave me an awful wipe on the head last time—Mary,” said Stalky.
“She does if you don’t duck,” said McTurk. “But she generally kisses one back. Let’s try Mother Yeo.”
They sought a little bottle-windowed half dairy, half restaurant, a dark-brewed, two-hundred-year-old house, at the head of a narrow side street. They had patronized it from the days of their fagdom, and were very much friends at home.
“We’ve come to pay our debts, mother,” said Stalky, sliding his arm round the fifty-six-inch waist of the mistress of the establishment. “To pay our debts and say good-by—and—and we’re awf’ly hungry.”
“Aie!” said Mother Yeo, “makkin’ love to me! I’m shaamed of ’ee.”
“’Rackon us wouldn’t du no such thing if Mary was here,” said McTurk, lapsing into the broad North Devon that the boys used on their campaigns.
“Who’m takin’ my name in vain?” The inner door opened, and Mary, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and apple-checked, entered with a bowl of cream in her hands. McTurk kissed her. Beetle followed suit, with exemplary calm. Both boys were promptly cuffed.