"Ah! The learned Lipsius is airing himself, is he? His Royal Highness
has gone to fumigate." McTurk climbed on the railings, where he held
forth like the never-wearied rook.

"Now in all the Coll. there was no stink like the stink of King's
house, for it stank vehemently and none knew what to make of it. Save
King. And he washed the fags _privatim_et_seriatim_. In the fishpools
of Hesbon washed he them, with an apron about his loins."

"Shut up, you mad Irishman!" There was the sound of a golf-ball
spurting up gravel.

"It's no good getting wrathy, Rattray. We've come to jape with you.
Come on, Beetle. They're all at home. You can wind 'em."

"Where's the Pomposo Stinkadore? 'Tisn't safe for a pure-souled,
high-minded boy to be seen round his house these days. Gone out, has
he? Never mind. I'll do the best I can, Rattray. I'm
_in_loco_parentis_ just now."

("One for you, Prout," whispered Macrea, for this was Mr. Prout's pet
phrase.)

"I have a few words to impart to you, my young friend. We will
discourse together a while."

Here the listening Prout sputtered: Beetle, in a strained voice, had
chosen a favorite gambit of King's.