“You aren’t going back to the house, are you?” said McTurk. The victims desired nothing better. “You’ve simply no conception of the reek up there. Of course, frowzin’ as you do, you wouldn’t notice it; but, after this nice wash and the clean, fresh air, even _you’d_ be upset. ‘Much better camp on the Burrows. We’ll get you some straw. Shall we?” The house hurried in to the tune of “John Brown’s body,” sung by loving schoolmates, and barricaded themselves in their form-room. Straightway Stalky chalked a large cross, with “Lord, have mercy upon us,” on the door, and left King to find it. The wind shifted that night and wafted a carrion-reek into Macrea’s dormitories; so that boys in nightgowns pounded on the locked door between the houses, entreating King’s to wash. Number Five study went to second lesson with not more than half a pound of camphor apiece in their clothing; and King, too wary to ask for explanations, gibbered a while and hurled them forth. So Beetle finished yet another poem at peace in the study. “They’re usin’ carbolic now. Malpas told me,” said Stalky. “King thinks it’s the drains.” “She’ll need a lot o’ carbolic,” said McTurk. “No harm tryin’, I suppose. It keeps King out of mischief.” “I swear I thought he was goin’ to kill me when I sniffed just now. He didn’t mind Burton major sniffin’ at me the other day, though. He never stopped Alexander howlin’ ‘Stinker!’ into our form-room before--before we doctored ’em. He just grinned,” said Stalky. “What was he frothing over you for, Beetle?” “Aha! That, was my subtle jape. I had him on toast. You know he always jaws about the learned Lipsius.” “‘Who at the age of four’--_that_ chap?” said McTurk. “Yes. Whenever he hears I’ve written a poem. Well, just as I was sittin’ down, I whispered, ‘How is our learned Lepsius?’ to Burton major. Old Butt grinned like an owl. _He_ didn’t know what I was drivin’ at; but King jolly well did. That was really why he hove us out. Ain’t you grateful? Now shut up. I’m goin’ to write the ‘Ballad of the Learned Lipsius.’” “Keep clear of anything coarse, then,” said Stalky. “I shouldn’t like to be coarse on this happy occasion.” “Not for wo-orlds. What rhymes to ‘stenches,’ someone?” In Common-room at lunch King discoursed acridly to Prout of boys with prurient minds, who perverted their few and baleful talents to sap discipline and corrupt their equals, to deal in foul imagery and destroy reverence. “But you didn’t seem to consider this when your house called us--ah--stinkers. If you hadn’t assured me that you never interfere with another man’s house, I should almost believe that it was a few casual remarks of yours that started all this nonsense.” Prout had endured much, for King always took his temper to meals. “You spoke to Beetle yourself, didn’t you? Something about not bathing, and being a water-funk?” the school chaplain put in. “I was scoring in the pavilion that day.”