adjusted Beetle's collar with a savage tug. 'Don't drop oil all over my "Fors," or I'll scrag you!'
'Shut up, you—you Irish Biddy! Tisn't your beastly "Fors." It's one of mine.'
The book was a fat, brown-backed volume of the later Sixties, which King had once thrown at Beetle's head that Beetle might see whence the name Gigadibs came. Beetle had quietly annexed the book, and had seen—several things. The quarter-comprehended verses lived and ate with him, as the be-dropped pages showed. He removed himself from all that world, drifting at large with wondrous Men and Women, till M'Turk hammered the pilchard spoon on his head and he snarled.
'Beetle! You're oppressed and insulted and bullied by King. Don't you feel it?'
'Let me alone! I can write some more poetry about him if I am, I suppose.'
'Mad! Quite mad!' said Stalky to the visitors, as one exhibiting strange beasts. 'Beetle reads an ass called Browning and M'Turk reads an ass called Ruskin; and'
'Ruskin isn't an ass,' said M'Turk. 'He's almost as good as the Opium-Eater. He says "we're children of noble races trained by surrounding art." That means me, and the way I decorated the study when you two badgers would have stuck up brackets and Christmas cards. Child of a noble race, trained by surrounding art, stop reading, or I'll shove a pilchard down your neck!'
'It's two to one,' said Stalky warningly, and
