friend, a fag of Macrea's, that there was trouble in their midst
which King would fain keep secret.

But Macrea's boy had also a bosom friend in Prout's, a shock-headed
fag of malignant disposition, who, when he had wormed out the secret,
told--told it in a high-pitched treble that rang along the corridor
like a bat's squeak.

"An'--an' they've been calling us 'stinkers' all this week. Why,
Harland minor says they simply can't sleep in his dormitory for the
stink. Come on!"

"With one shout and with one cry" Prout's juniors hurled themselves
into the war, and through the interval between first and second
lesson some fifty twelve-year-olds were embroiled on the gravel
outside King's windows to a tune whose _leit-motif_ was the word
"stinker."

"Hark to the minute-gun at sea!" said Stalky. They were in their study
collecting books for second lesson--Latin, with King. "I thought his
azure brow was a bit cloudy at prayers. 'She is comin', sister Mary.
She is--'"

"If they make such a row now, what will they do when she really begins
to look up an' take notice?"

"Well, no vulgar repartee, Beetle. Ali we want is to keep out of this
row like gentlemen."

"'Tis but a little faded flower.' Where's my Horace? Look here, I