“Let’s go down to the lavatory and have a look at the damage. One of us can hold the glass and t’others can squint.”
They proceeded on these lines for some ten minutes. The wales were very red and very level. There was not a penny to choose between any of them for thoroughness, efficiency, and a certain clarity of outline that stamps the work of the artist.
“What are you doing down there?” Mr. Prout was at the head of the lavatory stairs, attracted by the noise of splashing.
“We’ve only been caned by the Head, sir, and we’re washing off the blood. The Head said we were to tell you. We were coming to report ourselves in a minute, sir. (Sotto voce.) That’s a score for Heffy!”
“Well, he deserves to score something, poor devil,” said McTurk, putting on his shirt. “We’ve sweated a stone and a half off him since we began.”
“But look here, why aren’t we wrathy with the Head? He said it was a flagrant injustice. So it is!” said Beetle.
“Dear man,” said McTurk, and vouchsafed no further answer.
It was Stalky who laughed till he had to hold on by the edge of a basin.
“You are a funny ass! What’s that for?” said Beetle.
“I’m—I’m thinking of the flagrant injustice of it!”