Stalky & Co.

“Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” far down the corridor.

“Disgusting!” said King. “Where do they pick up these obscene noises? One sharp lesson is what they want.”

The boys did not concern themselves with lessons for the next few days. They had all Colonel Dabney’s estate to play with, and they explored it with the stealth of Red Indians and the accuracy of burglars. They could enter either by the Lodge-gates on the upper road – they were careful to ingratiate themselves with the Lodge-keeper and his wife – drop down into the combe, and return along the cliffs; or they could begin at the combe and climb up into the road.

They were careful not to cross the Colonel’s path – he had served his turn, and they would not out-wear their welcome – nor did they show up on the sky-line when they could move in cover. The shelter of the gorze by the cliff-edge was their chosen retreat. Beetle christened it the Pleasant Isle of Aves, for the peace and the shelter of it; and here, the pipes and tobacco once cache’d in a convenient ledge an arm’s length down the cliff, their position was legally unassailable.

For, observe, Colonel Dabney had not invited them to enter his house. Therefore, they did not need to ask specific leave to go visiting; and school rules were strict on that point. He had merely thrown open his grounds to them; and, since they were lawful Bug-hunters, their extended bounds ran up to his notice-boards in the combe and his Lodge-gates on the hill.

They were amazed at their own virtue.

“And even if it wasn’t,” said Stalky, flat on his back, staring into the blue. “Even suppose we were miles out of bounds, no one could get at us through this wuzzy, unless he knew the tunnel. Isn’t this better than lyin’ up just behind the Coll. – in a blue funk every time we had a smoke? Isn’t your Uncle Stalky – ?”

“No,” said Beetle – he was stretched at the edge of the cliff spitting thoughtfully. “We’ve got to thank Turkey for this. Turkey is the Great Man. Turkey, dear, you’re distressing Heffles.”

“Gloomy old ass!” said McTurk, deep in a book.

“They’ve got us under suspicion,” said Stalky. “Hoophats is so suspicious somehow; and Foxy always makes every stalk he does a sort of – sort of – ”

“Scalp,” said Beetle. “Foxy’s a giddy Chingangook.”

“Poor Foxy,” said Stalky. “He’s goin’ to catch us one of these days. ‘Said to me in the Gym last night, ‘I’ve got my eye on you, Mister Corkran. I’m only warning you for your good.’ Then I said: ‘Well, you jolly well take it off again, or you’ll get into trouble. I’m only warnin’ you for your good.’ Foxy was wrath.”

“Yes, but it’s only fair sport for Foxy,” said Beetle. “It’s Hefflelinga that has the evil mind. ‘Shouldn’t wonder if he thought we got tight.”

“I never got squiffy but once – that was in the holidays,” said Stalky, reflectively; “an’ it made me horrid sick. ‘Pon my sacred Sam, though, it’s enough to drive a man to drink, havin’ an animal like Hoof for house-master.”

“If we attended the matches an’ yelled, ‘Well hit, sir,’ an’ stood on one leg an’ grinned every time Heffy said, ‘So ho, my sons. Is it thus?’ an’ said, ‘Yes, sir,’ an’ ‘No, sir,’ an’ ‘O, sir,’ an’ ‘Please, sir,’ like a lot o’ filthy fa-ags, Heffy ‘ud think no end of us,” said McTurk with a sneer.

“Too late to begin that.”

“It’s all right. The Hefflelinga means well. But he is an ass. And we show him that we think he’s an ass. An’ so Heffy don’t love us. ‘Told me last night after prayers that he was in loco parentis,” Beetle grunted.

“The deuce he did!” cried Stalky. “That means he’s maturin’ something unusual dam’ mean. Last time he told me that he gave me three hundred lines for dancin’ the cachuca in Number Ten dormitory. Loco parentis, by gum! But what’s the odds as long as you’re ‘appy? We’re all right.”

They were, and their very rightness puzzled Prout, King, and the Sergeant. Boys with bad consciences show it. They slink out past the Fives Court in haste, and smile nervously when questioned. They return, disordered, in bare time to save a call-over. They nod and wink and giggle one to the other, scattering at the approach of a master. But Stalky and his allies had long out-lived these manifestations of youth. They strolled forth unconcernedly, and returned in excellent shape after a light refreshment of strawberries and cream at the Lodge.

The Lodge-keeper had been promoted to keeper, vice the murderous fisherman, and his wife made much of the boys. The man, too, gave them a squirrel, which they presented to the Natural History Society; thereby checkmating little Hartopp, who wished to know what they were doing for Science. Foxy faithfully worked some deep Devon lanes behind a lonely cross-roads inn; and it was curious that Prout and King, members of Common-room seldom friendly, walked together in the same direction – that is to say, northeast.

Now, the Pleasant Isle of Aves lay due southwest. “They’re deep – day-vilish deep,” said Stalky. “Why are they drawin’ those covers?”

“Me,” said Beetle sweetly. “I asked Foxy if he had ever tasted the beer there. That was enough for Foxy, and it cheered him up a little. He and Heffy were sniffin’ round our old hut so long I thought they’d like a change.”

“Well, it can’t last forever,” said Stalky. “Heffy’s bankin’ up like a thunder-cloud, an’ King goes rubbin’ his beastly hands, an’ grinnin’ like a hyena. It’s shockin’ demoralizin’ for King. He’ll burst some day.”

That day came a little sooner than they expected – came when the Sergeant, whose duty it was to collect defaulters, did not attend an afternoon call-over.

“Tired of pubs, eh? He’s gone up to the top of the bill with his binoculars to spot us,” said Stalky. “Wonder he didn’t think of that before. Did you see old Heffy cock his eye at us when we answered our names? Heffy’s in it, too. Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me! Come on!”

“Aves?” said Beetle.

“Of course, but I’m not smokin’ aujourd’hui. Parceque je jolly well pense that we’ll be suivi. We’ll go along the cliffs, slow, an’ give Foxy lots of time to parallel us up above.”

They strolled towards the swimming-baths, and presently overtook King. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you,” he said. “Engaged in scientific pursuits, of course? I trust you will enjoy yourselves, my young friends.”

“You see!” said Stalky, when they were out of earshot. “He can’t keep a secret. He’s followin’ to cut off our line of retreat. He’ll wait at the baths till Heffy comes along. They’ve tried every blessed place except along the cliffs, and now they think they’ve bottled us. No need to hurry.”

They walked leisurely over the combes till they reached the line of notice-boards.

“Listen a shake. Foxy’s up wind comin’ down hill like beans. When you hear him move in the bushes, go straight across to Aves. They want to catch us flagrante delicto.”

They dived into the gorse at right angles to the tunnel, openly crossing the grass, and lay still in Aves.

“What did I tell you?” Stalky carefully put away the pipes and tobacco. The Sergeant, out of breath, was leaning against the fence, raking the furze with his binoculars, but he might as well have tried to see through a sand-bag. Anon, Prout and King appeared behind him. They conferred.

“Aha! Foxy don’t like the notice-boards, and he don’t like the prickles either. Now we’ll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They’ve sent Foxy into cover.”

The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.

“Hellish noise!” said Stalky, critically. “‘Don’t think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go into the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out.”

Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot. “Who’m they to combe-bottom for Lard’s sake? Master’ll be crazy,” he said.

“Poachers simly,” Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy’s langue de guerre.

“I’ll poach ‘em to raights!” He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King’s voice crying: “Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders.”

“Who’m yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the master. Come out o’ that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I reckon us knows the boys yeou’m after. They’ve tu long ears an’ vuzzy bellies, an’ you nippies they in yeour pockets when they’m dead. Come on up to master! He’ll boy yeou all you’re a mind to. Yeou other folk bide your side fence.”

“Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant,” shouted King. Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.

Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally biting the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle twitching on the cheek.

They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. “Come yeou right in an’ set down, my little dearrs,” said the woman. “They’ll niver touch my man. He’ll poach ‘em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries an’ cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they’ve no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he’ve digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. ‘Tis in the linhay in a box.”

“Us’ll take un with us when we’re finished here. I reckon yeou’m busy. We’ll bide here an’ – ‘tis washin’ day with yeou, simly,” said Stalky. “We’m no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss. There’s plenty cream.”

The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her apron, and left them in the parlor. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney, something clearer than a bugle.

“Ye can read? You’ve eyes in your head? Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye have!”

Beetle snatched a crochet-work antimacassar from the shiny horsehair sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.

“You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to me! Why – why – why, ye misbegotten poacher, ye’ll be teaching me my A B C next! Roarin’ like a bull in the bushes down there! Boys? Boys? Boys? Keep your boys at home, then! I’m not responsible for your boys! But I don’t believe it – I don’t believe a word of it. Ye’ve a furtive look in your eye – a furtive, sneakin’, poachin’ look in your eye, that ‘ud ruin the reputation of an archangel! Don’t attempt to deny it! Ye have! A sergeant? More shame to you, then, an’ the worst bargain Her Majesty ever made! A sergeant, to run about the country poachin’ – on your pension! Damnable! Oh, damnable! But I’ll be considerate. I’ll be merciful. By gad, I’ll be the very essence o’ humanity! Did ye, or did ye not, see my notice-boards? Don’t attempt to deny it! Ye did. Silence, Sergeant!”

Twenty-one years in the army had left their mark on Foxy. He obeyed.

“Now. March!” The high Lodge gate shut with a clang. “My duty! A sergeant to tell me my duty!” puffed Colonel Dabney. “Good Lard! more sergeants!”

“It’s King! It’s King!” gulped Stalky, his head on the horsehair pillow. McTurk was eating the rag-carpet before the speckless hearth, and the sofa heaved to the emotions of Beetle. Through the thick glass the figures without showed blue, distorted, and menacing.

“I – I protest against this outrage.” King had evidently been running up hill. “The man was entirely within his duty. Let – let me give you my card.”

“He’s in flannels!” Stalky buried his head again.

“Unfortunately – most unfortunately – I have not one with me, but my name is King, sir, a house-master of the College, and you will find me prepared – fully prepared – to answer for this man’s action. We’ve seen three – ”

“Did ye see my notice-boards?”

“I admit we did; but under the circumstances – ”

“I stand in loco parentis.” Prout’s deep voice was added to the discussion. They could hear him pant.

“F’what?” Colonel Dabney was growing more and more Irish.

“I’m responsible for the boys under my charge.”

“Ye are, are ye? Then all I can say is that ye set them a very bad example – a dam’ bad example, if I may say so. I do not own your boys. I’ve not seen your boys, an’ I tell you that if there was a boy grinnin’ in every bush on the place, still ye’ve no shadow of a right here, comin’ up from the combe that way, an’ frightenin’ everything in it. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did. Ye should have come to the Lodge an’ seen me like Christians, instead of chasin’ your dam’ boys through the length and breadth of my covers. In loco parentis ye are? Well, I’ve not forgotten my Latin either, an’ I’ll say to you: ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes.’ If the masters trespass, how can we blame the boys?”

“But if I could speak to you privately,” said Prout.

“I’ll have nothing private with you! Ye can be as private as ye please on the other side o’ that gate an’ – I wish ye a very good afternoon.”

A second time the gate clanged. They waited till Colonel Dabney had returned to the house, and fell into one another’s arms, crowing for breath.

“Oh, my Soul! Oh, my King! Oh, my Heffy! Oh, my Foxy! Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Simple.” Stalky wiped his eyes. “Oh! Oh I Oh! – ‘I did boil the exciseman!’ We must get out of this or we’ll be late for tea.”

“Ge – Ge – get the badger and make little Hartopp happy. Ma – ma – make ‘em all happy,” sobbed McTurk, groping for the door and kicking the prostrate Beetle before him.

They found the beast in an evil-smelling box, left two half-crowns for payment, and staggered home. Only the badger grunted most marvelous like Colonel Dabney, and they dropped him twice or thrice with shrieks of helpless laughter. They were but imperfectly recovered when Foxy met them by the Fives Court with word that they were to go up to their dormitory and wait till sent for.

“Well, take this box to Mr. Hartopp’s rooms, then. We’ve done something for the Natural History Society, at any rate,” said Beetle.

“‘Fraid that won’t save you, young gen’elmen,” Foxy answered, in an awful voice. He was sorely ruffled in his mind.

“All sereno, Foxibus.” Stalky had reached the extreme stage of hiccups. “We – we’ll never desert you, Foxy. Hounds choppin’ foxes in cover is more a proof of vice, ain’t it?.. No, you’re right. I’m – I’m not quite well.”

“They’ve gone a bit too far this time,” Foxy thought to himself. “Very far gone, I’d say, excep’ there was no smell of liquor. An’ yet it isn’t like ‘em – somehow. King and Prout they ‘ad their dressin’-down same as me. That’s one comfort.”

“Now, we must pull up,” said Stalky, rising from the bed on which he had thrown himself. “We’re injured innocence – as usual. We don’t know what we’ve been sent up here for, do we?”

“No explanation. Deprived of tea. Public disgrace before the house,” said McTurk, whose eyes were running over. “It’s dam’ serious.”

“Well, hold on, till King loses his temper,” said Beetle. “He’s a libelous old rip, an’ he’ll be in a ravin’ paddy-wack. Prout’s too beastly cautious. Keep your eye on King, and, if he gives us a chance, appeal to the Head. That always makes ‘em sick.”

They were summoned to their house-master’s study, King and Foxy supporting Prout, and Foxy had three canes under his arm. King leered triumphantly, for there were tears, undried tears of mirth, on the boys’ cheeks. Then the examination began.

Yes, they had walked along the cliffs. Yes, they had entered Colonel Dabney’s grounds. Yes, they had seen the notice-boards (at this point Beetle sputtered hysterically). For what purpose had they entered Colonel Dabney’s grounds? “Well, sir, there was a badger.”

Here King, who loathed the Natural History Society because he did not like Hartopp, could no longer be restrained. He begged them not to add mendacity to open insolence. But the badger was in Mr. Hartopp’s rooms, sir. The Sergeant had kindly taken it up for them. That disposed of the badger, and the temporary check brought King’s temper to boiling-point. They could hear his foot on the floor while Prout prepared his lumbering inquiries. They had settled into their stride now. Their eyes ceased to sparkle; their faces were blank; their hands hung beside them without a twitch. They were learning, at the expense of a fellow-countryman, the lesson of their race, which is to put away all emotion and entrap the alien at the proper time.

So far good. King was importing himself more freely into the trial, being vengeful where Prout was grieved. They knew the penalties of trespassing? With a fine show of irresolution, Stalky admitted that he had gathered some information vaguely bearing on this head, but he thought – The sentence was dragged out to the uttermost: Stalky did not wish to play his trump with such an opponent. Mr. King desired no buts, nor was he interested in Stalky’s evasions. They, on the other hand, might be interested in his poor views. Boys who crept – who sneaked – who lurked – out of bounds, even the generous bounds of the Natural History Society, which they had falsely joined as a cloak for their misdeeds – their vices – their villainies – their immoralities —

“He’ll break cover in a minute,” said Stalky to himself. “Then we’ll run into him before he gets away.”

Such boys, scabrous boys, moral lepers – the current of his words was carrying King off his feet – evil-speakers, liars, slow-bellies – yea, incipient drunkards…

He was merely working up to a peroration, and the boys knew it; but McTurk cut through the frothing sentence, the others echoing:

“I appeal to the Head, sir.”

“I appeal to the head, sir.”

“I appeal to the Head, sir.”

It was their unquestioned right. Drunkenness meant expulsion after a public flogging. They had been accused of it. The case was the Head’s, and the Head’s alone.

“Thou hast appealed unto Caesar: unto Caesar shalt thou go.” They had heard that sentence once or twice before in their careers. “None the less,” said King, uneasily, “you would be better advised to abide by our decision, my young friends.”

“Are we allowed to associate with the rest of the school till we see the Head, sir?” said McTurk to his house-master, disregarding King. This at once lifted the situation to its loftiest plane. Moreover, it meant no work, for moral leprosy was strictly quarantined, and the Head never executed judgment till twenty-four cold hours later.

“Well – er – if you persist in your defiant attitude,” said King, with a loving look at the canes under Foxy’s arm. “There is no alternative.”

Ten minutes later the news was over the whole school. Stalky and Co. had fallen at last – fallen by drink. They had been drinking. They had returned blind-drunk from a hut. They were even now lying hopelessly intoxicated on the dormitory floor. A few bold spirits crept up to look, and received boots about the head from the criminals.

“We’ve got him – got him on the Caudine Toasting-fork!” said Stalky, after those hints were taken. “King’ll have to prove his charges up to the giddy hilt.”

“Too much ticklee, him bust,” Beetle quoted from a book of his reading. “Didn’t I say he’d go pop if we lat un bide?”

“No prep., either, O ye incipient drunkards,” said McTurk, “and it’s trig night, too. Hullo! Here’s our dear friend Foxy. More tortures, Foxibus?”

“I’ve brought you something to eat, young gentlemen,” said the Sergeant from behind a crowded tray. Their wars had ever been waged without malice, and a suspicion floated in Foxy’s mind that boys who allowed themselves to be tracked so easily might, perhaps, hold something in reserve. Foxy had served through the Mutiny, when early and accurate information was worth much.

“I – I noticed you ‘adn’t ‘ad anything to eat, an’ I spoke to Gumbly, an’ he said you wasn’t exactly cut off from supplies. So I brought up this. It’s your potted ‘am tin, ain’t it, Mr. Corkran?”

“Why, Foxibus, you’re a brick,” said Stalky. “I didn’t think you had this much – what’s the word, Beetle?”

“Bowels,” Beetle replied, promptly. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s young Carter’s potted ham, though.”

“There was a C on it. I thought it was Mr. Corkran’s. This is a very serious business, young gentlemen. That’s what it is. I didn’t know, perhaps, but there might be something on your side which you hadn’t said to Mr. King or Mr. Prout, maybe.”

“There is. Heaps, Foxibus.” This from Stalky through a full mouth.

“Then you see, if that was the case, it seemed to me I might represent it, quiet so to say, to the ‘Ead when he asks me about it. I’ve got to take ‘im the charges to-night, an’ – it looks bad on the face of it.”

“‘Trocious bad, Foxy. Twenty-seven cuts in the Gym before all the school, and public expulsion. ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is ragin’,’” quoth Beetle.

“It’s nothin’ to make fun of, young gentlemen. I ‘ave to go to the ‘Ead with the charges. An’ – an’ you mayn’t be aware, per’aps, that I was followin’ you this afternoon; havin’ my suspicions.”

“Did ye see the notice-boards?” croaked McTurk, in the very brogue of Colonel Dabney.

“Ye’ve eyes in your head. Don’t attempt to deny it. Ye did!” said Beetle.

“A sergeant! To run about poachin’ on your pension! Damnable, O damnable!” said Stalky, without pity.

“Good Lord!” said the Sergeant, sitting heavily upon a bed. “Where – where the devil was you? I might ha’ known it was a do – somewhere.”

“Oh, you clever maniac!” Stalky resumed. “We mayn’t be aware you were followin’ us this afternoon, mayn’t we? ‘Thought you were stalkin’ us, eh? Why, we led you bung into it, of course. Colonel Dabney – don’t you think he’s a nice man, Foxy? – Colonel Dabney’s our pet particular friend. We’ve been goin’ there for weeks and weeks, he invited us. You and your duty! Curse your duty, sir! Your duty was to keep off his covers.”

“You’ll never be able to hold up your head again, Foxy. The fags ‘ll hoot at you,” said Beetle.

“Think of your giddy prestige!” The Sergeant was thinking – hard.

“Look ‘ere, young gentlemen,” he said, earnestly. “You aren’t surely ever goin’ to tell, are you? Wasn’t Mr. Prout and Mr. King in – in it too?”

“Foxibusculus, they was. They was – singular horrid. Caught it worse than you. We heard every word of it. You got off easy, considerin’. If I’d been Dabney I swear I’d ha’ quodded you. I think I’ll suggest it to him to-morrow.”

“An’ it’s all goin’ up to the ‘Ead. Oh, Good Lord!”

“Every giddy word of it, my Chingangook,” said Beetle, dancing. “Why shouldn’t it? We’ve done nothing wrong. We ain’t poachers. We didn’t cut about blastin’ the characters of poor, innocent boys – saying they were drunk.”

“That I didn’t,” said Foxy. “I – I only said that you be’aved uncommon odd when you come back with that badger. Mr. King may have taken the wrong hint from that.”

“‘Course he did; an’ he’ll jolly well shove all the blame on you when he finds out he’s wrong. We know King, if you don’t. I’m ashamed of you. You ain’t fit to be a sergeant,” said McTurk.

“Not with three thorough-goin’ young devils like you, I ain’t. I’ve been had. I’ve been ambuscaded. Horse, foot, an’ guns, I’ve been had, an’ – an’ there’ll be no holdin’ the junior forms after this. M’rover, the ‘Ead will send me with a note to Colonel Dabney to ask if what you say about bein’ invited was true.”

“Then you’d better go in by the Lodge-gates this time, instead of chasin’ your dam’ boys – oh, that was the Epistle to King – so it was. We-el, Foxy?” Stalky put his chin on his hands and regarded the victim with deep delight.

“Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!” said McTurk. “Foxy brought us tea when we were moral lepers. Foxy has a heart. Foxy has been in the Army, too.”

“I wish I’d ha’ had you in my company, young gentlemen,” said the Sergeant from the depths of his heart; “I’d ha’ given you something.”

“Silence at drum-head court-martial,” McTurk went on. “I’m advocate for the prisoner; and, besides, this is much too good to tell all the other brutes in the Coll. They’d never understand. They play cricket, and say: ‘Yes sir,’ and ‘O, sir,’ and ‘No, sir.’”

“Never mind that. Go ahead,” said Stalky.