--still a boy we are, Master Gigadibs--do not disturb my equanimity."

"Wonder which it was," thought Beetle. He had launched many lampoons
on an appreciative public ever since he discovered that it was
possible to convey reproof in rhyme.

In sign of his unruffled calm, King proceeded to tear Beetle, whom he
called Gigadibs, slowly asunder. From his untied shoestrings to his
mended spectacles (the life of a poet at a big school is hard) he
held him up to the derision of his associates--with the usual result.
His wild flowers of speech--King had an unpleasant tongue---restored
him to good humor at the last. He drew a lurid picture of Beetle's
latter end as a scurrilous pamphleteer dying in an attic, scattered a
few compliments over McTurk and Corkran, and, reminding Beetle that he
must come up for judgment when called upon, went to Common-room,
where he triumphed anew over his victims.

"And the worst of it," he explained in a loud voice over his soup, "is
that I waste such gems of sarcasm on their thick heads. It's miles
above them, I'm certain."

"We-ell," said the school chaplain slowly, "I don't know what
Corkran's appreciation of your style may be, but young McTurk reads
Ruskin for his amusement."

"Nonsense! He does it to show off. I mistrust the dark Celt."

"He does nothing of the kind. I went into their study the other night,
unofficially, and McTurk was gluing up the back of four odd numbers
of 'Fors Clavigera.'"