“They said so. ‘They said it very loud and clear. They went and shouted in our ear,’” said Stalky.
“My own private impression is that all three of you will infallibly be hanged,” said the Reverend John.
“Why, we didn’t do anything,” McTurk replied. “It was all Mr. Prout. Did you ever read a book about Japanese wrestlers? My uncle—-he’s in the Navy—gave me a beauty once.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Turkey.”
“I’m not, sir. I’m givin’ an illustration—same as a sermon. These wrestler-chaps have got sort sort of trick that lets the other chap do all the work. Than they give a little wriggle, and he upsets himself. It’s called shibbuwichee or tokonoma, or somethin’. Mr. Prout’s a shibbuwicher. It isn’t our fault.”
“Did you suppose we went round corruptin’ the minds of the fags?” said Beetle. “They haven’t any, to begin with; and if they had, they’re corrupted long ago. I’ve been a fag, Padre.”
“Well, I fancied I knew the normal range of your iniquities; but if you take so much trouble to pile up circumstantial evidence against yourselves, you can’t blame any one if—”
“We don’t blame any one, Padre. We haven’t said a word against Mr. Prout, have we?” Stalky looked at the others. “We love him. He hasn’t a notion how we love him.”
“H’m! You dissemble your love very well. Have you ever thought who got you turned out of your study in the first place?”
“It was Mr. Prout turned us out,” said Stalky, with significance.