school. Sefton had spent three months with a London crammer, and the
tale of his adventures there lost nothing in the telling. Campbell,
who had a fine taste in clothes and a fluent vocabulary, followed his
lead in looking down loftily on the rest of the world. This was only
their second term, and the school, used to what it profanely called
"crammers' pups," had treated them with rather galling reserve. But
their whiskers--Sefton owned a real razor--and their mustaches were
beyond question impressive.

"Shall we go in an' dissuade 'em?" McTurk asked. "I've never had much
to do with 'em, but I'll bet my hat Campbell's a funk."

"No--o! That's _oratio_directa_," said Stalky, shaking his head. "I
like _oratio_obliqua_. 'Sides, where'd our moral influence be then?
Think o' that!"

"Rot! What are you goin' to do?" Beetle turned into Lower Number Nine
form-room, next door to the study.

"Me?" The lights of war flickered over Stalky's face. "Oh, I want to
jape with 'em. Shut up a bit!"

He drove his hands into his pockets and stared out of window at the
sea, whistling between his teeth. Then a foot tapped the floor; one
shoulder lifted; he wheeled, and began the short quick
double-shuffle--the war-dance of Stalky in meditation. Thrice he
crossed the empty form-room, with compressed lips and expanded
nostrils, swaying to the quick-step. Then he halted before the dumb
Beetle and softly knuckled his bead, Beetle bowing to the strokes.
McTurk nursed one knee and rocked to and fro. They could hear Clewer