Easter term was but a month old when Stettson major, a dayboy, contracted diphtheria, and the Head was very angry. He decreed a new and narrower set of bounds--the infection had been traced to an out-lying farmhouse--urged the prefects severely to lick all trespassers, and promised extra attentions from his own hand.
There were no words bad enough for Stettson major, quarantined at his mother's house, who had lowered the school-average of health. This he said in the gymnasium after prayers. Then he wrote some two hundred letters to as many anxious parents and guardians, and bade the school carry on. The trouble did not spread, but, one night, a dog-cart drove to the Head's door, and in the morning the Head had gone, leaving all things in charge of Mr. King, senior house-master. The Head often ran up to town, where the school devoutly believed he bribed officials for early proofs of the Army Examination papers; but this absence was unusually prolonged.
"Downy old bird!" said Stalky to the allies one wet afternoon in the study. "He must have gone on a bend and been locked up under a false name.""What for?" Beetle entered joyously into the libel.
"Forty shillin's or a month for hackin' the chucker-out of the Pavvy on the shins.
Bates always has a spree when he goes to town. Wish he was back, though. I'm about sick o' King's 'whips an' scorpions' an' lectures on public-school spirit--yah!--and scholarship!""'Crass an' materialized brutality of the middle-classes--readin' solely for marks.
Not a scholar in the whole school,'" McTurk quoted, pensively boring holes in the mantel-piece with a hot poker.
"That's rather a sickly way of spending an afternoon. Stinks too. Let's come out an'
smoke. Here's a treat." Stalky held up a long Indian cheroot. "'Bagged it from my pater last holidays. I'm a bit shy of it though; it's heftier than a pipe. We'll smoke it palaver-fashion. Hand it round, eh? Let's lie up behind the old harrow on the Monkey-farm Road.""Out of bounds. Bounds beastly strict these days, too. Besides, we shall cat."Beetle sniffed the cheroot critically. "It's a regular Pomposo Stinkadore.""You can; I shan't. What d'you say, Turkey?"
"Oh, may's well, I s'pose."
"Chuck on your cap, then. It's two to one. Beetle, out you come!"They saw a group of boys by the notice-board in the corridor; little Foxy, the school sergeant, among them.
"More bounds, I expect," said Stalky. "Hullo, Foxibus, who are you in mournin' for?"There was a broad band of crape round Foxy's arm.
"He was in my old regiment," said Foxy, jerking his head towards the notices, where a newspaper cutting was thumb-tacked between callover lists.
"By gum!" quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. "It's old Duncan--Fat-Sow Duncan--killed on duty at something or other Kotal. '_Rallyin'_his_men_with__conspicuous_gallantry._' He would, of course. '_The_body_was_recovered_.' That's all right. They cut 'em up sometimes, don't they, Foxy?""Horrid," said the sergeant briefly.
"Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make to us, Foxy?""Mr. Duncan, he is the ninth. He come here when he was no bigger than little Grey tertius. My old regiment, too. Yiss, nine to us, Mr. Corkran, up to date."The boys went out into the wet, walking swiftly.
"Wonder how it feels--to be shot and all that," said Stalky, as they splashed down a lane. "Where did it happen, Beetle?""Oh, out in India somewhere. We're always rowin' there. But look here, Stalky, what _is_ the good o' sittin' under a hedge an' cattin'? It's be-eastly cold. It's be-eastly wet, and we'll be collared as sure as a gun.""Shut up! Did you ever know your Uncle Stalky get you into a mess yet?" Like many other leaders, Stalky did not dwell on past defeats.
They pushed through a dripping hedge, landed among water-logged clods, and sat down on a rust-coated harrow. The cheroot burned with sputterings of saltpetre. They smoked it gingerly, each passing to the other between dosed forefinger and thumb.
"Good job we hadn't one apiece, ain't it?" said Stalky, shivering through set teeth.
To prove his words he immediately laid all before them, and they followed his example...
"I told you," moaned Beetle, sweating clammy drops. "Oh, Stalky, you are a fool!""_Je_cat_, _tu_cat_, _il_cat_. _Nous cattons_!" McTurk handed up his contribution and lay hopelessly on the cold iron.
"Something's wrong with the beastly thing. I say, Beetle, have you been droppin' ink on it?"But Beetle was in no case to answer. Limp and empty, they sprawled across the harrow, the rust marking their ulsters in red squares and the abandoned cheroot-end reeking under their very cold noses. Then--they had heard nothing--the Head himself stood before them--the Head who should have been in town bribing examiners--the Head fantastically attired in old tweeds and a deer-stalker!
"Ah," he said, fingering his mustache. "Very good. I might have guessed who it was.
You will go back to the College and give my compliments to Mr. King and ask him to give you an extra-special licking. You will then do me five hundred lines. I shall be back to-morrow. Five hundred lines by five o'clock to-morrow. You are also gated for a week. This is not exactly the time for breaking bounds. Extra-special, please."He disappeared over the hedge as lightly as he had come. There was a murmur of women's voices in the deep lane.
"Oh, you Prooshan brute!" said McTurk as the voices died away. "Stalky, it's all your silly fault.""Kill him! Kill him!" gasped Beetle.
"I ca-an't. I'm going to cat again... I don't mind that, but King'll gloat over us horrid. Extra-special, ooh!"Stalky made no answer--not even a soft one. They went to College and received that for which they had been sent. King enjoyed himself most thoroughly, for by virtue of their seniority the boys were exempt from his hand, save under special order.
Luckily, he was no expert in the gentle art.
