“Huh! He licks across the shoulders, an’ it would slam like a beastly barn-door,” said Beetle. “Good-night, Padre. We’re in for it.” Once more they stood in the presence of the Head--Belial, Mammon, and Lucifer. But they had to deal with a man more subtle than them all. Mr. Prout had talked to him, heavily and sadly, for half an hour; and the Head had seen all that was hidden from the house-master. “You’ve been bothering Mr. Prout,” he said pensively. “House-masters aren’t here to be bothered by boys more than is necessary. I don’t like being bothered by these things. You are bothering _me_. That is a very serious offense. You see it?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, now, I purpose to bother you, on personal and private grounds, because you have broken into my time. You are much too big to lick, so I suppose I shall have to mark my displeasure in some other way. Say, a thousand lines apiece, a week’s gating, and a few things of that kind. Much too big to lick, aren’t you?” “Oh, no, sir,” said Stalky cheerfully; for a week’s gating in the summer term is serious. “Ve-ry good. Then we will do what we can. I wish you wouldn’t bother me.” It was a fair, sustained, equable stroke, with a little draw to it, but what they felt most was his unfairness in stopping to talk between executions. Thus: “Among the--lower classes this would lay me open to a charge of--assault. You should be more grateful for your--privileges than you are. There is a limit--one finds it by experience, Beetle--beyond which it is never safe to pursue private vendettas, because--don’t move--sooner or later one comes--into collision with the--higher authority, who has studied the animal. _Et ego_--McTurk, please--_in Arcadia vixi_. There’s a certain flagrant injustice about this that ought to appeal to--your temperament. And that’s all! You will tell your house-master that you have been formally caned by me.” “My word!” said McTurk, wriggling his shoulder-blades all down the corridor. “That was business! The Prooshan Bates has an infernal straight eye.” “Wasn’t it wily of me to ask for the lickin’,” said Stalky, “instead of those impots?” “Rot! We were in for it from the first. _I_ knew the look of his old eye,” said Beetle. “I was within an inch of blubbing.” “Well, I didn’t exactly smile,” Stalky confessed. “Let’s go down to the lavatory and have a look at the damage. One of us can hold the glass and t’others can squint.” They proceeded on these lines for some ten minutes. The wales were very red and very level. There was not a penny to choose between any of them for thoroughness, efficiency, and a certain clarity of outline that stamps the work of the artist. “What are you doing down there?” Mr. Prout was at the head of the lavatory stairs, attracted by the noise of splashing.