“It’s nothin’ to make fun of, young gentlemen. I ’ave to go to the ’Ead with the charges. An’—an’ you mayn’t be aware, per’aps, that I was followin’ you this afternoon; havin’ my suspicions.”
“Did ye see the notice-boards?” croaked McTurk, in the very brogue of Colonel Dabney.
“Ye’ve eyes in your head. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did!” said Beetle.
“A sergeant! To run about poachin’ on your pension! Damnable, O damnable!” said Stalky, without pity.
“Good Lord!” said the Sergeant, sitting heavily upon a bed. “Where—where the devil was you? I might ha’ known it was a do—somewhere.”
“Oh, you clever maniac!” Stalky resumed. “We mayn’t be aware you were followin’ us this afternoon, mayn’t we? ’Thought you were stalkin’ us, eh? Why, we led you bung into it, of course. Colonel Dabney—don’t you think he’s a nice man, Foxy?—Colonel Dabney’s our pet particular friend. We’ve been goin’ there for weeks and weeks, he invited us. You and your duty! Curse your duty, sir! Your duty was to keep off his covers.”
“You’ll never be able to hold up your head again, Foxy. The fags ’ll hoot at you,” said Beetle.
“Think of your giddy prestige!” The Sergeant was thinking—hard.
“Look ’ere, young gentlemen,” he said, earnestly. “You aren’t surely ever goin’ to tell, are you? Wasn’t Mr. Prout and Mr. King in—in it too?”
“Foxibusculus, they was. They was—singular horrid. Caught it worse than you. We heard every word of it. You got off easy, considerin’. If I’d been Dabney I swear I’d ha’ quodded you. I think I’ll suggest it to him to-morrow.”