"Falling into the pit he has digged," said little Hartopp. "Certainly
not, Prout. No one accuses you of setting one house against another
through sheer idleness."

"A belittling life--a belittling life." The chaplain rose. "I go to
correct French exercises. By dinner King will have scored off some
unlucky child of thirteen; he will repeat to us every word of his
brilliant repartees, and all will be well."

"But about those three. Are they so prurient-minded?"

"Nonsense," said little Hartopp. "If you thought for a minute, Prout,
you would see that the 'precocious flow of fetid imagery,' that King
complains of, is borrowed wholesale from King. He 'nursed the pinion
that impelled the steel.' Naturally he does not approve. Come into
the smoking-room for a minute. It isn't fair to listen to boys; but
they should be now rubbing it into King's house outside. Little
things please little minds."

The dingy den off the Common-room was never used for anything except
gowns. Its windows were ground glass; one could not see out of it,
but one could hear almost every word on the gravel outside. A light
and wary footstep came up from Number Five.

"Rattray!" in a subdued voice--Rattray's study fronted that way.
"D'you know if Mr. King's anywhere about? I've got a--" McTurk
discreetly left the end of the sentence open.

"No. he's gone out," said Rattray unguardedly.