“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?”