all houses, practically where they chose; Mr. Hartopp holding himself responsible for their good conduct.
Beetle began to see this as M'Turk began the kicking.
'I'm an ass, Stalky!' he said, guarding the afflicted part. 'Pax, Turkey. I'm an ass.'
'Don't stop, Turkey. Isn't your Uncle Stalky a great man?'
'Great man,' said Beetle.
'All the same, bug-huntin's a filthy business,' said M'Turk. 'How the deuce does one begin?'
'This way,' said Stalky, turning to some fags' lockers behind him. Fags are dabs at Natural History. 'Here's young Braybrooke's botany-case.' He flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the slide. ''Gives one no end of a professional air, I think. Here's Clay Minor's geological hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you'd better covet a butterfly-net from somewhere.'
'I'm blowed if I do,' said M'Turk simply, with immense feeling. 'Beetle, give me the hammer.'
'All right. I'm not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers, Stalky.'
'That's all right. It's a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin'-rod. 'Pon my sainted Sam, but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle Stalky! We're goin' along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few chaps come there. We're goin' to leg it, too. You'd better leave your book behind.'
