The volunteer cadet-corps fell in next Monday, depressedly, with a face of shame. Even then, judicious silence might have turned the corner. Said Foxy: “After a fine speech like what you ’eard night before last, you ought to take ’old of your drill with _re_-newed activity. I don’t see how you can avoid comin’ out an’ marchin’ in the open now.” “Can’t we get out of it, then, Foxy?” Stalky’s fine old silky tone should have warned him. “No, not with his giving the flag so generously. He told me before he left this morning that there was no objection to the corps usin’ it as their own. It’s a handsome flag.” Stalky returned his rifle to the rack in dead silence, and fell out. His example was followed by Hogan and Ansell. Perowne hesitated. “Look here, oughtn’t we--?” he began. “I’ll get it out of the locker in a minute,” said the Sergeant, his back turned. “Then we can--” “Come on!” shouted Stalky. “What the devil are you waiting for? Dismiss! Break off.” “Why--what the--where the--?” The rattle of Sniders, slammed into the rack, drowned his voice, as boy after boy fell out. “I--I don’t know that I shan’t have to report this to the Head,” he stammered. “Report, then, and be damned to you,” cried Stalky, white to the lips, and ran out. * * * * * “Rummy thing!” said Beetle to McTurk. “I was in the study, doin’ a simply lovely poem about the Jelly-Bellied Flag-Flapper, an’ Stalky came in, an’ I said ‘Hullo!’ an’ he cursed me like a bargee, and then he began to blub like anything. Shoved his head on the table and howled. Hadn’t we better do something?” McTurk was troubled. “P’raps he’s smashed himself up somehow.” They found him, with very bright eyes, whistling between his teeth. “Did I take you in, Beetle? I thought I would. Wasn’t it a good draw? Didn’t you think I was blubbin’? Didn’t I do it well? Oh, you fat old ass!” And he began to pull Beetle’s ears and checks, in the fashion that was called “milking.” “I knew you were blubbin’,” Beetle replied, composedly. “Why aren’t you at drill?” “Drill! What drill?” “Don’t try to be a clever fool. Drill in the Gym.” “’Cause there isn’t any. The volunteer cadet-corps is broke up--disbanded--dead--putrid--corrupt---stinkin’. An’ if you look at me like that, Beetle, I’ll slay you too... Oh, yes, an’ I’m goin’ to be reported to the Head for swearin’.” THE LAST TERM.