'No—o! That's oratio directa,' said Stalky, shaking his head. 'I like oratio obliqua. 'Sides, where'd our moral influence be then? Think o' that!'
'Rot! What are you goin' to do?' Beetle turned into Lower Number Nine form-room, next door to the study.
'Me?' The lights of war flickered over Stalky's face. 'Oh, I want to jape with 'em. Shut up a bit!'
He drove his hands into his pockets and stared out of window at the sea, whistling between his teeth. Then a foot tapped the floor; one shoulder lifted; he wheeled, and began the short quick double-shuffle—the war-dance of Stalky in meditation. Thrice he crossed the empty form-room, with compressed lips and expanded nostrils, swaying to the quick-step. Then he halted before the dumb Beetle and softly knuckled his head, Beetle bowing to the strokes. M'Turk nursed one knee and rocked to and fro. They could hear Clewer howling as though his heart would break.
'Beetle is the sacrifice,' Stalky said at last. 'I'm sorry for you, Beetle. 'Member Galton's Art of Travel [one of the forms had been studying that pleasant work] an' the kid whose bleatin' excited the tiger?'
'Oh, curse!' said Beetle uneasily. It was not his first season as a sacrifice. 'Can't you get on without me?'
' 'Fraid not, Beetle, dear. You've got to be bullied by Turkey an' me. The more you howl, o' course, the better it'll be. Turkey, go an' covet
