Ch. 6: A Little Prep - Page 2

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