Part 56

“Oh, no; but in the Coll. we must be pro-cadet-corps like anything. Can’t you make up a giddy epigram, à la Catullus, about King objectin’ to it?” Beetle was at this noble task when Stalky returned all hot from his first drill.

“Hullo, my ramrod-bunger!” began McTurk. “Where’s your dead dog? Is it Defence or Defiance?”

“Defiance,” said Stalky, and leaped on him at that word. “Look here, Turkey, you mustn’t rot the corps. We’ve arranged it beautifully. Foxy swears he won’t take us out into the open till we say we want to go.”

“Dis-gustin’ exhibition of immature infants apin’ the idiosyncrasies of their elders. Snff!”

“Have you drawn King, Beetle?” Stalky asked in a pause of the scuffle.

“Not exactly; but that’s his genial style.”

“Well, listen to your Uncle Stalky--who is a great man. Moreover and subsequently, Foxy’s goin’ to let us drill the corps in turn--privatim et seriatim--so that we’ll all know how to handle a half company anyhow. Ergo, an’ propter hoc, when we go to the Shop we shall be dismissed drill early; thus, my beloved ’earers, combinin’ education with wholesome amusement.”

“I knew you’d make a sort of extra-tu of it, you cold-blooded brute,” said McTurk. “Don’t you want to die for your giddy country?”

“Not if I can jolly well avoid it. So you mustn’t rot the corps.”

“We’d decided on that, years ago,” said Beetle, scornfully. “King’ll do the rottin’.”

“Then you’ve got to rot King, my giddy poet. Make up a good catchy Limerick, and let the fags sing it.”

“Look here, you stick to volunteerin’, and don’t jog the table.”

“He won’t have anything to take hold of,” said Stalky, with dark significance.

They did not know what that meant till, a few days later, they proposed to watch the corps at drill. They found the gymnasium door locked and a fag on guard. “This is sweet cheek,” said McTurk, stooping.

“Mustn’t look through the key-hole,” said the sentry.

“I like that. Why, Wake, you little beast, I made you a volunteer.”

“Can’t help it. My orders are not to allow any one to look.”

“S’pose we do?” said McTurk. “S’pose we jolly well slay you?”

“My orders are, I am to give the name of anybody who interfered with me on my post, to the corps, an’ they’d deal with him after drill, accordin’ to martial law.”

“What a brute Stalky is!” said Beetle. They never doubted for a moment who had devised that scheme.

“You esteem yourself a giddy centurion, don’t you?” said Beetle, listening to the crash and rattle of grounded arms within.

“My orders are, not to talk except to explain my orders--they’ll lick me if I do.”

McTurk looked at Beetle. The two shook their heads and turned away.

“I swear Stalky is a great man,” said Beetle after a long pause. “One consolation is that this sort of secret-society biznai will drive King wild.”

It troubled many more than King, but the members of the corps were muter than oysters. Foxy, being bound by no vow, carried his woes to Keyte.

“I never come across such nonsense in my life. They’ve tiled the lodge, inner and outer guard, all complete, and then they get to work, keen as mustard.”

“But what’s it all for?” asked the ex-Troop Sergeant-Major.

“To learn their drill. You never saw anything like it. They begin after I’ve dismissed ’em--practisin’ tricks; but out into the open they will not come--not for ever so. The ’ole thing is pre-posterous. If you’re a cadet-corps, I say, be a cadet-corps, instead o’ hidin’ be’ind locked doors.”