Down went McTurk's inky thumb over an imaginary arena full of bleeding
Kings. "_Placete_, child of a generous race!" he cried to Beetle.

"Well," began Beetle, doubtfully, "he comes from Balliol, but I'm
going to give the beast a chance. You see I can always make him hop
with some more poetry. He can't report me to the Head, because it
makes him ridiculous. (Stalky's quite right.) But he shall have his
chance."

Beetle opened the book on the table, ran his finger down a page, and
began at random:

"Or who in Moscow toward the Czar
With the demurest of footfalls,
Over the Kremlin's pavement white
With serpentine and syenite,
Steps with five other generals--"

"That's no good. Try another," said Stalky.

"Hold on a shake; I know what's coming." McTurk was reading over
Beetle's shoulder.

"That simultaneously take snuff,
For each to have pretext enough
And kerchiefwise unfold his sash,
Which--softness' self--is yet the stuff

(Gummy! What a sentence!)