Turkey elbowed into a cohort of scuffling fags, cut out Thornton tertius (he that had been Harland's bosom friend), and bade him tell his tale.
It was a simple one, interrupted by tears. Many of King's house had already battered him for libel.
'Oh, it's nothing,' M'Turk cried. 'He says that King's house stinks. That's all.'
'Stale!' Stalky shouted. 'We knew that years ago, only we didn't choose to run about shoutin' "Stinker!" We've got some manners, if they haven't. Catch a fag, Turkey, and make sure of it.'
Turkey's long arm closed on a hurried and anxious ornament of the Lower Second.
'Oh, M'Turk, please let me go. I don't stink—I swear I don't!'
'Guilty conscience!' cried Beetle. 'Who said you did?'
'What d'you make of it?' Stalky punted the small boy into Beetle's arms.
'Snf! Snf! He does, though. I think it's leprosy—or thrush. P'raps it's both. Take it away.'
'Indeed, Master Beetle'—King generally came to the house-door for a minute or two as the bell rang—'we are vastly indebted to you for your diagnosis, which seems to reflect almost as much credit on the natural unwholesomeness of your mind as it does upon your pitiful ignorance of the diseases of which you discourse so glibly. We will, however, test your knowledge in other directions.'
