“It is not,” Mr. King whispered, and began to explain, on lines that might, perhaps, have been too freely expressed for the parents of those young (though it gave their offspring delight), but with a passion, force, and wealth of imagery which would have crowned his discourse at any university. By the time he drew towards his peroration the Form was almost openly applauding. Howell noiselessly drummed the cadence of “Bonnie Dundee” on his desk; Paddy Vernon framed a dumb: “Played! Oh, _well_ played, sir!” at intervals; Stalky kept tally of the brighter gems of invective; and Beetle sat aghast but exulting among the spirits he had called up. For though their works had never been mentioned, and though Mr. King said he had merely glanced at the obscene publications, he seemed to know a tremendous amount about Nathaniel and Delia--especially Delia. “I told you so!” said Beetle, proudly, at the end. “What? _Him!_ I wasn’t botherin’ myself to listen to him an’ his Delia,” McTurk replied. Afterwards King fought his battle over again with the Reverend John in the Common Room. “Had I been that triple ass Hume, I might have risen to the bait. As it is, I flatter myself I left them under no delusions as to Shakespeare’s authenticity. Yes, a small drink, please. Virtue has gone out of me indeed. But _where_ did they get it from?” “The devil! The young devil,” the Reverend John muttered, half aloud. “I could have excused devilry. It was ignorance. Sheer, crass, insolent provincial ignorance! I tell you, Gillett, if the Romans had dealt faithfully with the Celt, _ab initio_, this--this would never have happened.” “Quite so. I should like to have heard your remarks.” “I’ve told ’em to tell me what they remember of them, with their own conclusions, in essay form next week.” Since he had loosed the whirlwind, the fair-minded Beetle offered to do Turkey’s essay for him. On Turkey’s behalf, then, he dealt with Shakespeare’s lack of education, his butchering, poaching, drinking, horse-holding, and errand-running as Nathaniel had described them; lifted from the same source pleasant names, such as “rustic” and “sorry poetaster,” on which last special hopes were built; and expressed surprise that one so ignorant could have done “what he was attributed to.” His own essay contained no novelties. Indeed, he withheld one or two promising “subsequently transpireds” for fear of distracting King. * * * * *