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 awhile.'
Here the listening Prout sputtered: Beetle, in a strained voice, had chosen a favourite gambit of King's.
'I repeat, Master Rattray, we will confer, and the matter of our discourse shall not be stinks, for that is a loathsome and obscene word. We will, with your good leave—granted, I trust, Master Rattray, granted, I trust—study this—this scabrous upheaval of latent demoralisation. What impresses me most is not so much the blatant indecency with which you swagger abroad under your load of putrescence' (you must imagine this discourse punctuated with golf-balls, but old Rattray was ever a bad shot) 'as the cynical immorality with which you revel in your abhorrent aromas. Far be it from me to interfere with another's house'
('Good Lord!' said Prout, 'but this is King.'
'Line for line, letter for letter. Listen,' said little Hartopp.)
'But to say that you stink, as certain lewd fellows of the baser sort aver, is to say nothing—less than nothing. In the absence of your beloved house-master, for whom no one has a higher regard than myself, I will, if you will allow me, explain the grossness—the unparalleled enormity—the appalling fetor of the stenches (I believe in the
