Stalky & Co.

“They are singularly favored by fortune. That is all I ever said. Personally, I like them immensely, and I believe I have a little of their confidence. I confess I like being called ‘Padre.’ They are at peace with me; consequently I am not treated to bogus confessions of theft.”

“You mean Mason’s case?” said Prout heavily. “That always struck me as peculiarly scandalous. I thought the Head should have taken up the matter more thoroughly. Mason may be misguided, but at least he is thoroughly sincere and means well.”

“I confess I cannot agree with you, Prout,” said the Reverend John. “He jumped at some silly tale of theft on their part; accepted another boy’s evidence without, so far as I can see, any inquiry; and – frankly, I think he deserved all he got.”

“They deliberately outraged Mason’s best feelings,” said Prout. “A word to me on their part would have saved the whole thing. But they preferred to lure him on; to play on his ignorance of their characters – ”

“That may be,” said King, “but I don’t like Mason. I dislike him for the very reason that Prout advances to his credit. He means well.”

“Our criminal tradition is not theft – among ourselves, at least,” said little Hartopp.

“For the head of a house that raided seven head of cattle from the innocent pot-wallopers of Northam, isn’t that rather a sweeping statement?” said Macrae.

“Precisely so,” said Hartopp, unabashed. “That, with gate-lifting, and a little poaching and hawk-hunting on the cliffs, is our salvation.”

“It does us far more harm as a school – ” Prout began.

“Than any hushed-up scandal could? Quite so. Our reputation among the farmers is most unsavory. But I would much sooner deal with any amount of ingenious crime of that nature than – some other offenses.”

“They may be all right, but they are unboylike, abnormal, and, in my opinion, unsound,” Prout insisted. “The moral effect of their performances must pave the way for greater harm. It makes me doubtful how to deal with them. I might separate them.”

“You might, of course; but they have gone up the school together for six years. I shouldn’t care to do it,” said Macrae.

“They use the editorial ‘we,’” said King, irrelevantly. “It annoys me. ‘Where’s your prose, Corkran?’ ‘Well, sir, we haven’t quite done it yet.’ ‘We’ll bring it in a minute,’ and so on. And the same with the others.”

“There’s great virtue in that ‘we,’” said little Hartopp. “You know I take them for trig. McTurk may have some conception of the meaning of it; but Beetle is as the brutes that perish about sines and cosines. He copies serenely from Stalky, who positively rejoices in mathematics.”

“Why don’t you stop it?” said Prout.

“It rights itself at the exams. Then Beetle shows up blank sheets, and trusts to his ‘English’ to save him from a fall. I fancy he spends most of his time with me in writing verse.”

“I wish to Heaven he would transfer a little of his energy in that direction to Elegiaes.” King jerked himself upright. “He is, with the single exception of Stalky, the very vilest manufacturer of ‘barbarous hexameters’ that I have ever dealt with.”

“The work is combined in that study,” said the chaplain. “Stalky does the mathematics, McTurk the Latin, and Beetle attends to their English and French. At least, when he was in the sick-house last month – ”

“Malingering,” Prout interjected.

“Quite possibly. I found a very distinct falling off in their ‘Roman d’un Jeune Homme Pauvre’ translations.”

“I think it is profoundly immoral,” said Prout. “I’ve always been opposed to the study system.”

“It would be hard to find any study where the boys don’t help each other; but in Number Five the thing has probably been reduced to a system,” said little Hartopp. “They have a system in most things.”

“They confess as much,” said the Reverend John. “I’ve seen McTurk being hounded up the stairs to elegise the ‘Elegy in a Churchyard,’ while Beetle and Stalky went to punt-about.”

“It amounts to systematic cribbing,” said Prout, his voice growing deeper and deeper.

“No such thing,” little Hartopp returned. “You can’t teach a cow the violin.”

“In intention it is cribbing.”

“But we spoke under the seal of the confessional, didn’t we?” said the Reverend John.

“You say you’ve heard them arranging their work in this way, Gillett,” Prout persisted.

“Good Heavens! Don’t make me Queen’s evidence, my dear fellow. Hartopp is equally incriminated. If they ever found out that I had sneaked, our relations would suffer – and I value them.”

“I think your attitude in this matter is weak,” said Prout, looking round for support. “It would be really better to break up the study – for a while – wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, break it up by all means,” said Macrae. “We shall see then if Gillett’s theory holds water.”

“Be wise, Prout. Leave them alone, or calamity will overtake you; and what is much more important, they will be annoyed with me. I am too fat, alas! to be worried by bad boys. Where are you going?”

“Nonsense! They would not dare – but I am going to think this out,” said Prout. “It needs thought. In intention they cribbed, and I must think out my duty.”

“He’s perfectly capable of putting the boys on their honor. It’s I that am a fool.” The Reverend John looked round remorsefully. “Never again will I forget that a master is not a man. Mark my words,” said the Reverend John. “There will be trouble.”

But by the yellow Tiber
Was tumult and affright.

Out of the blue sky (they were still rejoicing over the cat war) Mr. Prout had dropped into Number Five, read them a lecture on the enormity of cribbing, and bidden them return to the form-rooms on Monday. They had raged, solo and chorus, all through the peaceful Sabbath, for their sin was more or less the daily practice of all the studies.

“What’s the good of cursing?” said Stalky at last. “We’re all in the same boat. We’ve got to go back and consort with the house. A locker in the form-room, and a seat at prep. in Number Twelve.” (He looked regretfully round the cozy study which McTurk, their leader in matters of Art, had decorated with a dado, a stencil, and cretonne hangings.)

“Yes! Heffy lurchin’ into the form-rooms like a frowzy old retriever, to see if we aren’t up to something. You know he never leaves his house alone, these days,” said McTurk. “Oh, it will be giddy!”

“Why aren’t you down watchin’ cricket? I like a robust, healthy boy. You mustn’t frowst in a form-room. Why don’t you take an interest in your house? Yah!” quoted Beetle.

“Yes, why don’t we? Let’s! We’ll take an interest in the house. We’ll take no end of interest in the house! He hasn’t had us in the form-rooms for a year. We’ve learned a lot since then. Oh, we’ll make it a be-autiful house before we’ve done! ‘Member that chap in ‘Eric’ or ‘St. Winifred’s’ – Belial somebody? I’m goin’ to be Belial,” said Stalky, with an ensnaring grin.

“Right O,” said Beetle, “and I’ll be Mammon. I’ll lend money at usury – that’s what they do at all schools accordin’ to the B.O.P. Penny a week on a shillin’. That’ll startle Heffy’s weak intellect. You can be Lucifer, Turkey.”

“What have I got to do?” McTurk also smiled.

“Head conspiracies – and cabals – and boycotts. Go in for that ‘stealthy intrigue’ that Heffy is always talkin’ about. Come on!”

The house received them on their fall with the mixture of jest and sympathy always extended to boys turned out of their study. The known aloofness of the three made them more interesting.

“Quite like old times, ain’t it?” Stalky selected a locker and flung in his books. “We’ve come to sport with you, my young friends, for a while, because our beloved house-master has hove us out of our diggin’s.”

“‘Serve you jolly well right,” said Orrin, “you cribbers!”

“This will never do,” said Stalky. “We can’t maintain our giddy prestige, Orrin, de-ah, if you make these remarks.”

They wrapped themselves lovingly about the boy, thrust him to the opened window, and drew down the sash to the nape of his neck. With an equal swiftness they tied his thumbs together behind his back with a piece of twine, and then, because he kicked furiously, removed his shoes. There Mr. Prout happened to find him a few minutes later, guillotined and helpless, surrounded by a convulsed crowd who would not assist.

Stalky, in an upper form-room, had gathered himself allies against vengeance. Orrin presently tore up at the head of a boarding party, and the form-room grew one fog of dust through which boys wrestled, stamped, shouted, and yelled. A desk was carried away in the tumult, a knot of warriors reeled into and split a door-panel, a window was broken, and a gas-jet fell. Under cover of the confusion the three escaped to the corridor, whence they called in and sent up passers-by to the fray.