“Well,” began Beetle, doubtfully, “he comes from Balliol, but I’m going to give the beast a chance. You see I can always make him hop with some more poetry. He can’t report me to the Head, because it makes him ridiculous. (Stalky’s quite right.) But he shall have his chance.”
Beetle opened the book on the table, ran his finger down a page, and began at random:
“Or who in Moscow toward the Czar
With the demurest of footfalls,
Over the Kremlin’s pavement white
With serpentine and syenite,
Steps with five other generals—”
“That’s no good. Try another,” said Stalky.
“Hold on a shake; I know what’s coming.” McTurk was reading over Beetle’s shoulder.
“That simultaneously take snuff,
For each to have pretext enough
And kerchiefwise unfold his sash,
Which—softness’ self—is yet the stuff
(Gummy! What a sentence!)
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps
And leave the grand white neck no gash.
(Full stop.)”
“’Don’t understand a word of it,” said Stalky.