Stalky & Co.. Rudyard Kipling
ye are? Well, I’ve not forgotten my Latin either, an’ I’ll say to you: ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes.’ If the masters trespass, how can we blame the boys?”
“But if I could speak to you privately,” said Prout.
“I’ll have nothing private with you! Ye can be as private as ye please on the other side o’ that gate an’ – I wish ye a very good afternoon.”
A second time the gate clanged. They waited till Colonel Dabney had returned to the house, and fell into one another’s arms, crowing for breath.
“Oh, my Soul! Oh, my King! Oh, my Heffy! Oh, my Foxy! Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Simple.” Stalky wiped his eyes. “Oh! Oh I Oh! – ‘I did boil the exciseman!’ We must get out of this or we’ll be late for tea.”
“Ge – Ge – get the badger and make little Hartopp happy. Ma – ma – make ‘em all happy,” sobbed McTurk, groping for the door and kicking the prostrate Beetle before him.
They found the beast in an evil-smelling box, left two half-crowns for payment, and staggered home. Only the badger grunted most marvelous like Colonel Dabney, and they dropped him twice or thrice with shrieks of helpless laughter. They were but imperfectly recovered when Foxy met them by the Fives Court with word that they were to go up to their dormitory and wait till sent for.
“Well, take this box to Mr. Hartopp’s rooms, then. We’ve done something for the Natural History Society, at any rate,” said Beetle.
“‘Fraid that won’t save you, young gen’elmen,” Foxy answered, in an awful voice. He was sorely ruffled in his mind.
“All sereno, Foxibus.” Stalky had reached the extreme stage of hiccups. “We – we’ll never desert you, Foxy. Hounds choppin’ foxes in cover is more a proof of vice, ain’t it?.. No, you’re right. I’m – I’m not quite well.”
“They’ve gone a bit too far this time,” Foxy thought to himself. “Very far gone, I’d say, excep’ there was no smell of liquor. An’ yet it isn’t like ‘em – somehow. King and Prout they ‘ad their dressin’-down same as me. That’s one comfort.”
“Now, we must pull up,” said Stalky, rising from the bed on which he had thrown himself. “We’re injured innocence – as usual. We don’t know what we’ve been sent up here for, do we?”
“No explanation. Deprived of tea. Public disgrace before the house,” said McTurk, whose eyes were running over. “It’s dam’ serious.”
“Well, hold on, till King loses his temper,” said Beetle. “He’s a libelous old rip, an’ he’ll be in a ravin’ paddy-wack. Prout’s too beastly cautious. Keep your eye on King, and, if he gives us a chance, appeal to the Head. That always makes ‘em sick.”
They were summoned to their house-master’s study, King and Foxy supporting Prout, and Foxy had three canes under his arm. King leered triumphantly, for there were tears, undried tears of mirth, on the boys’ cheeks. Then the examination began.
Yes, they had walked along the cliffs. Yes, they had entered Colonel Dabney’s grounds. Yes, they had seen the notice-boards (at this point Beetle sputtered hysterically). For what purpose had they entered Colonel Dabney’s grounds? “Well, sir, there was a badger.”
Here King, who loathed the Natural History Society because he did not like Hartopp, could no longer be restrained. He begged them not to add mendacity to open insolence. But the badger was in Mr. Hartopp’s rooms, sir. The Sergeant had kindly taken it up for them. That disposed of the badger, and the temporary check brought King’s temper to boiling-point. They could hear his foot on the floor while Prout prepared his lumbering inquiries. They had settled into their stride now. Their eyes ceased to sparkle; their faces were blank; their hands hung beside them without a twitch. They were learning, at the expense of a fellow-countryman, the lesson of their race, which is to put away all emotion and entrap the alien at the proper time.
So far good. King was importing himself more freely into the trial, being vengeful where Prout was grieved. They knew the penalties of trespassing? With a fine show of irresolution, Stalky admitted that he had gathered some information vaguely bearing on this head, but he thought – The sentence was dragged out to the uttermost: Stalky did not wish to play his trump with such an opponent. Mr. King desired no buts, nor was he interested in Stalky’s evasions. They, on the other hand, might be interested in his poor views. Boys who crept – who sneaked – who lurked – out of bounds, even the generous bounds of the Natural History Society, which they had falsely joined as a cloak for their misdeeds – their vices – their villainies – their immoralities —
“He’ll break cover in a minute,” said Stalky to himself. “Then we’ll run into him before he gets away.”
Such boys, scabrous boys, moral lepers – the current of his words was carrying King off his feet – evil-speakers, liars, slow-bellies – yea, incipient drunkards…
He was merely working up to a peroration, and the boys knew it; but McTurk cut through the frothing sentence, the others echoing:
“I appeal to the Head, sir.”
“I appeal to the head, sir.”
“I appeal to the Head, sir.”
It was their unquestioned right. Drunkenness meant expulsion after a public flogging. They had been accused of it. The case was the Head’s, and the Head’s alone.
“Thou hast appealed unto Caesar: unto Caesar shalt thou go.” They had heard that sentence once or twice before in their careers. “None the less,” said King, uneasily, “you would be better advised to abide by our decision, my young friends.”
“Are we allowed to associate with the rest of the school till we see the Head, sir?” said McTurk to his house-master, disregarding King. This at once lifted the situation to its loftiest plane. Moreover, it meant no work, for moral leprosy was strictly quarantined, and the Head never executed judgment till twenty-four cold hours later.
“Well – er – if you persist in your defiant attitude,” said King, with a loving look at the canes under Foxy’s arm. “There is no alternative.”
Ten minutes later the news was over the whole school. Stalky and Co. had fallen at last – fallen by drink. They had been drinking. They had returned blind-drunk from a hut. They were even now lying hopelessly intoxicated on the dormitory floor. A few bold spirits crept up to look, and received boots about the head from the criminals.
“We’ve got him – got him on the Caudine Toasting-fork!” said Stalky, after those hints were taken. “King’ll have to prove his charges up to the giddy hilt.”
“Too much ticklee, him bust,” Beetle quoted from a book of his reading. “Didn’t I say he’d go pop if we lat un bide?”
“No prep., either, O ye incipient drunkards,” said McTurk, “and it’s trig night, too. Hullo! Here’s our dear friend Foxy. More tortures, Foxibus?”
“I’ve brought you something to eat, young gentlemen,” said the Sergeant from behind a crowded tray. Their wars had ever been waged without malice, and a suspicion floated in Foxy’s mind that boys who allowed themselves to be tracked so easily might, perhaps, hold something in reserve. Foxy had served through the Mutiny, when early and accurate information was worth much.
“I – I noticed you ‘adn’t ‘ad anything to eat, an’ I spoke to Gumbly, an’ he said you wasn’t exactly cut off from supplies. So I brought up this. It’s your potted ‘am tin, ain’t it, Mr. Corkran?”
“Why, Foxibus, you’re a brick,” said Stalky. “I didn’t think you had this much – what’s the word, Beetle?”
“Bowels,” Beetle replied, promptly. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s young Carter’s potted ham, though.”
“There was a C on it. I thought it was Mr. Corkran’s. This is a very serious business, young gentlemen. That’s what it is. I didn’t know, perhaps, but there might be something on your side which you