But Macrea’s boy had also a bosom friend in Prout’s, a shock-headed fag of malignant disposition, who, when he had wormed out the secret, told—told it in a high-pitched treble that rang along the corridor like a bat’s squeak.
“An’—an’ they’ve been calling us ‘stinkers’ all this week. Why, Harland minor says they simply can’t sleep in his dormitory for the stink. Come on!”
“With one shout and with one cry” Prout’s juniors hurled themselves into the war, and through the interval between first and second lesson some fifty twelve-year-olds were embroiled on the gravel outside King’s windows to a tune whose leit-motif was the word “stinker.”
“Hark to the minute-gun at sea!” said Stalky. They were in their study collecting books for second lesson—Latin, with King. “I thought his azure brow was a bit cloudy at prayers. ‘She is comin’, sister Mary. She is—’”
“If they make such a row now, what will they do when she really begins to look up an’ take notice?”
“Well, no vulgar repartee, Beetle. All we want is to keep out of this row like gentlemen.”
“’Tis but a little faded flower.’ Where’s my Horace? Look here, I don’t understand what she means by stinkin’ out Rattray’s dormitory first. We holed in under White’s, didn’t we?” asked McTurk, with a wrinkled brow.
“Skittish little thing. She’s rompin’ about all over the place, I suppose.”
“My Aunt! King’ll be a cheerful customer at second lesson. I haven’t prepared my Horace one little bit, either,” said Beetle. “Come on!”
They were outside the form-room door now. It was within five minutes of the bell, and King might arrive at any moment.