“’Died mad. Two girls. Saw a tree, an’ said: ‘I shall die at the top.’ Oh yes, an’ his private amusements were ‘ridiculous an’ trivial.’” Howell shook a wary head. “Dunno what that might let me in for with King. You can have it, Stalky.” “I’ll take that,” McTurk yawned. “King doesn’t matter a curse to me, an’ he knows it. ‘Private amusements contemptible.’” He breathed all Ireland into the last perverted word. “Right,” Howell assented. “Bags I the dyin’ tree, then.” “’Cheery lot, these Augustans,” Stalky sighed. “’Any more of ’em been croakin’ lately, Beetle?” “My Hat!” the far-seeing Howell struck in. “King always gives us a stinker half-way down. What about Richardson--that ‘Clarissa’ chap, y’know?” “I’ve found out lots about him,” said Beetle, promptly. “He was the ‘Shakespeare of novelists.’” “King won’t stand that. He says there’s only one Shakespeare. ’Mustn’t rot about Shakespeare to King,” Howell objected. “An’ he was ‘always delighted with his own works,’” Beetle continued. “Like you,” Stalky pointed out. “Shut up. Oh yes, an’----” he consulted some hieroglyphics on a scrap of paper--“the--the impassioned Diderot (dunno who _he_ was) broke forth: ‘O Richardson, thou singular genius!’” Howell and Stalky rose together, each clamouring that he had bagged that first. “I _must_ have it!” Howell shouted. “King’s never seen me breakin’ forth with the impassioned Diderot. He’s _got_ to! Give me Diderot, you impassioned hound!” “Don’t upset the table. There’s tons more. An’ his genius was ‘fertile and prodigal.’” “All right! _I_ don’t mind bein’ ‘fertile and prodigal’ for a change,” Stalky volunteered. “King’s going to enjoy this exam. If he was the Army Prelim. chap we’d score.” “The Prelim. questions will be pretty much like King’s stuff,” Beetle assured them. “But it’s always a score to know what your examiner’s keen on,” Howell said, and illustrated it with an anecdote. “’Uncle of mine stayin’ with my people last holidays----” “Your Uncle Diderot?” Stalky asked. “No, you ass! Captain of Engineers. He told me he was up for a Staff exam. to an old Colonel-bird who believed that the English were the lost Tribes of Israel, or something like that. He’d written tons o’ books about it.” “All Sappers are mad,” said Stalky. “That’s one of the things the guv’nor _did_ tell me.” “Well, ne’er mind. My uncle played up, o’ course. ’Said he’d always believed it, too. And _so_ he got nearly top-marks for field-fortification. ’Didn’t know a thing about it, either, he said.” “Good biznai!” said Stalky. “Well, go on, Beetle. What about Steele?” “Can’t I keep anything for myself?” “Not _much_! King’ll ask you where you got it from, and you’d show off, an’ he’d find out. This ain’t your silly English Literature, you ass. It’s our marks. Can’t you see that?” Beetle very soon saw it was exactly as Stalky had said. * * * * *