those boys had been doing wrong somewhere. He hoped it was nothing very serious, but . . .
'Ti-ra-la-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!' M'Turk's voice cracked.
Now was there or was there not a distinct flavour 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.
