tated. "Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby,"' he sang in a whisper as he clung to the door-knob, dancing a noiseless war-dance.
King went downstairs again, and Beetle and M'Turk lit the gas to confer with Stalky. But Stalky had vanished.
' 'Looks like no end of a mess,' said Beetle, collecting his books and mathematical instrument case. 'A week in the form-rooms isn't any advantage to us.'
'Yes, but don't you see that Stalky isn't here, you owl?' said M'Turk. Take down the key, and look sorrowful. King 'll only jaw you for half an hour. I'm going to read in the lower form-room.'
'But it's always me,' mourned Beetle.
'Wait till we see,' said M'Turk hopefully. 'I don't know any more than you do what Stalky means, but it's something. Go down and draw King's fire. You're used to it.'
No sooner had the key turned in the door than the lid of the coal-box, which was also the window-seat, lifted cautiously. It had been a tight fit, even for the lithe Stalky, his head between his knees, and his stomach under his right ear. From a drawer in the table he took a well-worn catapult, a handful of buckshot, and a duplicate key of the study; noiselessly he raised the window and kneeled by it, his face turned to the road, the wind-sloped trees, the dark levels of the Burrows, and the white line of breakers falling nine-deep along the Pebble-ridge. Far down the steep-banked Devonshire lane he heard the husky hoot of the carrier's horn.
