Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 619
“Ti-ra-ra-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” Stalky, still on his heels, whirled like a dancing dervish to the dining-hall.
“Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” Beetle spun behind him with outstretched arms.
“Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” McTurk’s voice cracked.
Now was there or was there not a distinct flavor of beer as they shot past Mr. Prout?
He was unlucky in that his conscience as a house-master impelled him to consult his associates. Had he taken his pipe and his troubles to little Hartopp’s rooms he would, perhaps, have been saved confusion, for Hartopp believed in boys, and knew something about them. His fate led him to King, a fellow house-master, no friend of his, but a zealous hater of Stalky & Co.
“Ah-haa!” said King, rubbing his hands when the tale was told. “Curious! Now my house never dream of doing these things.”
“But you see I’ve no proof, exactly.”
“Proof? With the egregious Beetle! As if one wanted it! I suppose it is not impossible for the Sergeant to supply it? Foxy is considered at least a match for any evasive boy in my house. Of course they were smoking and drinking somewhere. That type of boy always does. They think it manly.”
“But they’ve no following in the school, and they are distinctly — er brutal to their juniors,” said Prout, who had from a distance seen Beetle return, with interest, his butterfly-net to a tearful fag.
“Ah! They consider themselves superior to ordinary delights. Self-sufficient little animals! There’s something in McTurk’s Hibernian sneer that would make me a little annoyed. And they are so careful to avoid all overt acts, too. It’s sheer calculated insolence. I am strongly opposed, as you know, to interfering with another man’s house; but they need a lesson, Prout. They need a sharp lesson, if only to bring down their over-weening self-conceit. Were I you, I should devote myself for a week to their little performances. Boys of that order — and I may flatter myself, but I think I know boys — don’t join the Bug-hunters for love. Tell the Sergeant to keep his eye open; and, of course, in my peregrinations I may casually keep mine open, too.”
“Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” far down the corridor.
“Disgusting!” said King. “Where do they pick up these obscene noises? One sharp lesson is what they want.”
The boys did not concern themselves with lessons for the next few days. They had all Colonel Dabney’s estate to play with, and they explored it with the stealth of Red Indians and the accuracy of burglars. They could enter either by the Lodge-gates on the upper road — they were careful to ingratiate themselves with the Lodge-keeper and his wife — drop down into the combe, and return along the cliffs; or they could begin at the combe and climb up into the road.
They were careful not to cross the Colonel’s path — he had served his turn, and they would not out-wear their welcome — nor did they show up on the sky-line when they could move in cover. The shelter of the gorze by the cliff-edge was their chosen retreat. Beetle christened it the Pleasant Isle of Aves, for the peace and the shelter of it; and here, the pipes and tobacco once cache’d in a convenient ledge an arm’s length down the cliff, their position was legally unassailable.
For, observe, Colonel Dabney had not invited them to enter his house. Therefore, they did not need to ask specific leave to go visiting; and school rules were strict on that point. He had merely thrown open his grounds to them; and, since they were lawful Bug-hunters, their extended bounds ran up to his notice-boards in the combe and his Lodge-gates on the hill.
They were amazed at their own virtue.
“And even if it wasn’t,” said Stalky, flat on his back, staring into the blue. “Even suppose we were miles out of bounds, no one could get at us through this wuzzy, unless he knew the tunnel. Isn’t this better than lyin’ up just behind the Coll. — in a blue funk every time we had a smoke? Isn’t your Uncle Stalky — ?”
“No,” said Beetle — he was stretched at the edge of the cliff spitting thoughtfully. “We’ve got to thank Turkey for this. Turkey is the Great Man. Turkey, dear, you’re distressing Heffles.”
“Gloomy old ass!” said McTurk, deep in a book.
“They’ve got us under suspicion,” said Stalky. “Hoophats is so suspicious somehow; and Foxy always makes every stalk he does a sort of — sort of — ”
“Scalp,” said Beetle. “Foxy’s a giddy Chingangook.”
“Poor Foxy,” said Stalky. “He’s goin’ to catch us one of these days. ‘Said to me in the Gym last night, ‘I’ve got my eye on you, Mister Corkran. I’m only warning you for your good.’ Then I said: ‘Well, you jolly well take it off again, or you’ll get into trouble. I’m only warnin’ you for your good.’ Foxy was wrath.”
“Yes, but it’s only fair sport for Foxy,” said Beetle. “It’s Hefflelinga that has the evil mind. ‘Shouldn’t wonder if he thought we got tight.”
“I never got squiffy but once — that was in the holidays,” said Stalky, reflectively; “an’ it made me horrid sick. ‘Pon my sacred Sam, though, it’s enough to drive a man to drink, havin’ an animal like Hoof for house-master.”
“If we attended the matches an’ yelled, ‘Well hit, sir,’ an’ stood on one leg an’ grinned every time Heffy said, ‘So ho, my sons. Is it thus?’ an’ said, ‘Yes, sir,’ an’ ‘No, sir,’ an’ ‘O, sir,’ an’ ‘Please, sir,’ like a lot o’ filthy fa-ags, Heffy ‘ud think no end of us,” said McTurk with a sneer.
“Too late to begin that.”
“It’s all right. The Hefflelinga means well. But he is an ass. And we show him that we think he’s an ass. An’ so Heffy don’t love us. ‘Told me last night after prayers that he was in loco parentis,” Beetle grunted.
“The deuce he did!” cried Stalky. “That means he’s maturin’ something unusual dam’ mean. Last time he told me that he gave me three hundred lines for dancin’ the cachuca in Number Ten dormitory. Loco parentis, by gum! But what’s the odds as long as you’re ‘appy? We’re all right.”
They were, and their very rightness puzzled Prout, King, and the Sergeant. Boys with bad consciences show it. They slink out past the Fives Court in haste, and smile nervously when questioned. They return, disordered, in bare time to save a call-over. They nod and wink and giggle one to the other, scattering at the approach of a master. But Stalky and his allies had long out-lived these manifestations of youth. They strolled forth unconcernedly, and returned in excellent shape after a light refreshment of strawberries and cream at the Lodge.
The Lodge-keeper had been promoted to keeper, vice the murderous fisherman, and his wife made much of the boys. The man, too, gave them a squirrel, which they presented to the Natural History Society; thereby checkmating little Hartopp, who wished to know what they were doing for Science. Foxy faithfully worked some deep Devon lanes behind a lonely cross-roads inn; and it was curious that Prout and King, members of Common-room seldom friendly, walked together in the same direction — that is to say, northeast.
Now, the Pleasant Isle of Aves lay due southwest. “They’re deep — day-vilish deep,” said Stalky. “Why are they drawin’ those covers?”
“Me,” said Beetle sweetly. “I asked Foxy if he had ever tasted the beer there. That was enough for Foxy, and it cheered him up a little. He and Heffy were sniffin’ round our old hut so long I thought they’d like a change.”
“Well, it can’t last forever,” said Stalky. “Heffy’s bankin’ up like a thunder-cloud, an’ King goes rubbin’ his beastly hands, an’ grinnin’ like a hyena. It’s shockin’ demoralizin’ for King. He’ll burst some day.”
That day came a little sooner than they expected — came when the Sergeant, whose duty it was to collect defaulters, did not attend an afternoon call-over.
“Tired of pubs, eh? He’s gone up to the top of the bill with his binoculars to spot us,” said Stalky. “Wonder he didn’t think of that before. Did you see old Heffy cock his eye at us when we answered our names? Heffy’s in it, too. Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me! Come on!”
“Aves?” said Beetle.
“Of course, but I’m not smokin’ aujourd’hui. Parceque je jolly well pense that we’ll be suivi. We’ll go along the cliffs, slow, an’ give Foxy lots of time to parallel us up above.”
They strolled towards the swimming-baths, and presently overtook King. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you,” he said. “Engaged in scientific pursuits, of course? I trust you will enjoy yourselves, my young friends.”
“You see!” said Stalky, when they were out of earshot. “He can’t keep a secret. He’s followin’ to cut off our line of retreat. He’ll wait at the baths till Heffy comes along. They’ve tried every blessed place except along the cliffs, and now they think they’ve bottled us. No need to hurry.”
They walked leisurely over the combes till they reached the line of notice-boards.
“Listen a shake. Foxy’s up wind comin’ down hill like beans. When you hear him move in the bushes, go straight across to Aves. They want to catch us flagrante delicto.”
They dived into the gorse at right angles to the tunnel, openly crossing the grass, and lay still in Aves.
“What did I tell you?” Stalky carefully put away the pipes and tobacco. The Sergeant, out of breath, was leaning against the fence, raking the furze with his binoculars, but he might as well have tried to see through a sand-bag. Anon, Prout and King appeared behind him. They conferred.
“Aha! Foxy don’t like the notice-boards, and he don’t like the prickles either. Now we’ll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They’ve sent Foxy into cover.”
The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.
“Hellish noise!” said Stalky, critically. “‘Don’t think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go into the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out.”
Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot. “Who’m they to combe-bottom for Lard’s sake? Master’ll be crazy,” he said.
“Poachers simly,” Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy’s langue de guerre.
“I’ll poach ‘em to raights!” He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King’s voice crying: “Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders.”
“Who’m yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the master. Come out o’ that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I reckon us knows the boys yeou’m after. They’ve tu long ears an’ vuzzy bellies, an’ you nippies they in yeour pockets when they’m dead. Come on up to master! He’ll boy yeou all you’re a mind to. Yeou other folk bide your side fence.”
“Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant,” shouted King. Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.
Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally biting the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle twitching on the cheek.
They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. “Come yeou right in an’ set down, my little dearrs,” said the woman. “They’ll niver touch my man. He’ll poach ‘em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries an’ cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they’ve no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he’ve digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. ‘Tis in the linhay in a box.”
“Us’ll take un with us when we’re finished here. I reckon yeou’m busy. We’ll bide here an’ — ’tis washin’ day with yeou, simly,” said Stalky. “We’m no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss. There’s plenty cream.”
The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her apron, and left them in the parlor. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney, something clearer than a bugle.
“Ye can read? You’ve eyes in your head? Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye have!”
Beetle snatched a crochet-work antimacassar from the shiny horsehair sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.
“You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to me! Why — why — why, ye misbegotten poacher, ye’ll be teaching me my A B C next! Roarin’ like a bull in the bushes down there! Boys? Boys? Boys? Keep your boys at home, then! I’m not responsible for your boys! But I don’t believe it — I don’t believe a word of it. Ye’ve a furtive look in your eye — a furtive, sneakin’, poachin’ look in your eye, that ‘ud ruin the reputation of an archangel! Don’t attempt to deny it! Ye have! A sergeant? More shame to you, then, an’ the worst bargain Her Majesty ever made! A sergeant, to run about the country poachin’ — on your pension! Damnable! Oh, damnable! But I’ll be considerate. I’ll be merciful. By gad, I’ll be the very essence o’ humanity! Did ye, or did ye not, see my notice-boards? Don’t attempt to deny it! Ye did. Silence, Sergeant!”
Twenty-one years in the army had left their mark on Foxy. He obeyed.
“Now. March!” The high Lodge gate shut with a clang. “My duty! A sergeant to tell me my duty!” puffed Colonel Dabney. “Good Lard! more sergeants!”
“It’s King! It’s King!” gulped Stalky, his head on the horsehair pillow. McTurk was eating the rag-carpet before the speckless hearth, and the sofa heaved to the emotions of Beetle. Through the thick glass the figures without showed blue, distorted, and menacing.
“I — I protest against this outrage.” King had evidently been running up hill. “The man was entirely within his duty. Let — let me give you my card.”
“He’s in flannels!” Stalky buried his head again.
“Unfortunately — most unfortunately — I have not one with me, but my name is King, sir, a house-master of the College, and you will find me prepared — fully prepared — to answer for this man’s action. We’ve seen three — ”
“Did ye see my notice-boards?”
“I admit we did; but under the circumstances — ”
“I stand in loco parentis.” Prout’s deep voice was added to the discussion. They could hear him pant.
“F’what?” Colonel Dabney was growing more and more Irish.
“I’m responsible for the boys under my charge.”
“Ye are, are ye? Then all I can say is that ye set them a very bad example — a dam’ bad example, if I may say so. I do not own your boys. I’ve not seen your boys, an’ I tell you that if there was a boy grinnin’ in every bush on the place, still ye’ve no shadow of a right here, comin’ up from the combe that way, an’ frightenin’ everything in it. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did. Ye should have come to the Lodge an’ seen me like Christians, instead of chasin’ your dam’ boys through the length and breadth of my covers. In loco parentis ye are? Well, I’ve not forgotten my Latin either, an’ I’ll say to you: ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes.’ If the masters trespass, how can we blame the boys?”
“But if I could speak to you privately,” said Prout.
“I’ll have nothing private with you! Ye can be as private as ye please on the other side o’ that gate an’ — I wish ye a very good afternoon.”
A second time the gate clanged. They waited till Colonel Dabney had returned to the house, and fell into one another’s arms, crowing for breath.
“Oh, my Soul! Oh, my King! Oh, my Heffy! Oh, my Foxy! Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Simple.” Stalky wiped his eyes. “Oh! Oh I Oh! — ’I did boil the exciseman!’ We must get out of this or we’ll be late for tea.”
“Ge — Ge — get the badger and make little Hartopp happy. Ma — ma — make ‘em all happy,” sobbed McTurk, groping for the door and kicking the prostrate Beetle before him.
They found the beast in an evil-smelling box, left two half-crowns for payment, and staggered home. Only the badger grunted most marvelous like Colonel Dabney, and they dropped him twice or thrice with shrieks of helpless laughter. They were but imperfectly recovered when Foxy met them by the Fives Court with word that they were to go up to their dormitory and wait till sent for.
“Well, take this box to Mr. Hartopp’s rooms, then. We’ve done something for the Natural History Society, at any rate,” said Beetle.
“‘Fraid that won’t save you, young gen’elmen,” Foxy answered, in an awful voice. He was sorely ruffled in his mind.
“All sereno, Foxibus.” Stalky had reached the extreme stage of hiccups. “We — we’ll never desert you, Foxy. Hounds choppin’ foxes in cover is more a proof of vice, ain’t it?... No, you’re right. I’m — I’m not quite well.”
“They’ve gone a bit too far this time,” Foxy thought to himself. “Very far gone, I’d say, excep’ there was no smell of liquor. An’ yet it isn’t like ‘em — somehow. King and Prout they ‘ad their dressin’-down same as me. That’s one comfort.”
“Now, we must pull up,” said Stalky, rising from the bed on which he had thrown himself. “We’re injured innocence — as usual. We don’t know what we’ve been sent up here for, do we?”
“No explanation. Deprived of tea. Public disgrace before the house,” said McTurk, whose eyes were running over. “It’s dam’ serious.”
“Well, hold on, till King loses his temper,” said Beetle. “He’s a libelous old rip, an’ he’ll be in a ravin’ paddy-wack. Prout’s too beastly cautious. Keep your eye on King, and, if he gives us a chance, appeal to the Head. That always makes ‘em sick.”
They were summoned to their house-master’s study, King and Foxy supporting Prout, and Foxy had three canes under his arm. King leered triumphantly, for there were tears, undried tears of mirth, on the boys’ cheeks. Then the examination began.
