“Hullo, Harrison.” McTurk ambled round the corner, with a roving eye on all possible horizons. “Bearin’ up, old man? That’s right. Live it down! Live it down!” “What d’you mean?” “You look a little pensive,” said McTurk. “Exhaustin’ job superintendin’ the honor of the house, ain’t it? By the way, how are you off for mares’-nests?” “Look here,” said Harrison, hoping for instant reward. “We’ve recommended Prout to let you go back to your study.” “The dooce you have! And who under the sun are _you_ to interfere between us and our house-master? Upon my Sam, you two try us very hard--you do, indeed. Of course we don’t know how far you abuse your position to prejudice us with Mr. Prout; but when you deliberately stop me to tell me you’ve been makin’ arrangements behind our back--in secret--with Prout--I--I don’t know really what we ought to do.” “That’s beastly unfair!” cried Craye. “It is.” McTurk had adopted a ghastly solemnity that sat well on his long, lean face. “Hang it all! A prefect’s one thing and an usher’s another; but you seem to combine ’em. You recommend this--you recommend that! _You_ say how and when we go back to our study!” “But--but--we thought you’d like it, Turkey. We did, indeed. You know you’ll be ever so much more comfortable there.” Harrison’s voice was almost tearful. McTurk turned away as though to hide his emotions. “They’re broke!” He hunted up Stalky and Beetle in a box-room. “They’re sick! They’ve been beggin’ Heffy to let us go back to Number Five. Poor devils! Poor little devils!” “It’s the olive branch,” was Stalky’s comment. “It’s the giddy white flag, by gum! Come to think of it, we _have_ metagrobolized ’em.” Just after tea that day, Mr. Prout sent for them to say that if they chose to ruin their future by neglecting their work, it was entirely their own affair. He wished them, however, to understand that their presence in the form-rooms could not be tolerated one hour longer. He personally did not care to think of the time he must spend in eliminating the traces of their evil influences. How far Beetle had pandered to the baser side of youthful imagination he would ascertain later; and Beetle might be sure that if Mr. Prout came across any soul-corrupting consequences-- “Consequences of what, sir?” said Beetle, genuinely bewildered this time; and McTurk quietly kicked him on the ankle for being “fetched” by Prout. Beetle, the house-master continued, knew very well what was intended. Evil and brief had been their careers under his eye; and as one standing _in loco parentis_ to their yet uncontaminated associates, he was bound to take his precautions. The return of the study key closed the sermon. “But what was the baser-side-of-imagination business?” said Beetle on the stairs. “I never knew such an ass as you are for justifyin’ yourself,” said McTurk. “I hope I jolly well skinned your ankle. Why do you let yourself be drawn by everybody?”