"All the same bug-huntin's a filthy business," said McTurk. "How the
deuce does one begin?"

"This way," said Stalky, turning to some fags' lockers behind him.
"Fags are dabs at Natural History. Here's young Braybrooke's
botany-case." He flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the
slide. "'Gives one no end of a professional air, I think. Here's Clay
Minor's geological hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you'd
better covet a butterfly-net from somewhere."

"I'm blowed if I do," said McTurk, simply, with immense feeling.
"Beetle, give me the hammer."

"All right. I'm not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the
lockers, Stalky."

"That's all right. It's a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious
dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin'-rod. 'Pon my sainted Sam,
but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle
Stalky! We're goin' along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few
chaps come there. We're goin' to leg it, too. You'd better leave your
book behind."

"Not much!" said Beetle, firmly. "I'm not goin' to be done out of my
fun for a lot of filthy butterflies."

"Then you'll sweat horrid. You'd better carry my Jorrocks. 'Twon't
make you any hotter."