“Did you see him?” said Beetle. “I almost put my hand on him. Wasn’t he a wopper! Didn’t he stink! Hullo, Turkey, what’s the matter? Are you hit?”
McTurk’s lean face had turned pearly white; his mouth, generally half open, was tight shut, and his eyes blazed. They had never seen him like this save once in a sad time of civil war.
“Do you know that that was just as bad as murder?” he said, in a grating voice, as he brushed prickles from his head.
“Well, he didn’t hit us,” said Stalky. “I think it was rather a lark. Here, where are you going?”
“I’m going up to the house, if there is one,” said McTurk, pushing through the hollies. “I am going to tell this Colonel Dabney.”
“Are you crazy? He’ll swear it served us jolly well right. He’ll report us. It’ll be a public lickin’. Oh, Turkey, don’t be an ass! Think of us!”
“You fool!” said McTurk, turning savagely. “D’you suppose I’m thinkin’ of us? It’s the keeper.”
“He’s cracked,” said Beetle, miserably, as they followed. Indeed, this was a new Turkey—a haughty, angular, nose-lifted Turkey—whom they accompanied through a shrubbery on to a lawn, where a white-whiskered old gentleman with a cleek was alternately putting and blaspheming vigorously.
“Are you Colonel Dabney?” McTurk began in this new creaking voice of his.
“I—I am, and—” his eyes traveled up and down the boy—“who—what the devil d’you want? Ye’ve been disturbing my pheasants. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye needn’t laugh at it.” (McTurk’s not too lovely features had twisted themselves into a horrible sneer at the word pheasant.) “You’ve been birds’-nesting. You needn’t hide your hat. I can see that you belong to the College. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye do! Your name and number at once, sir. Ye want to speak to me—Eh? You saw my notice-boards? Must have. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did! Damnable, oh damnable!”