“Then I’d advise you to look. When a little chap is whimpering in a corner and wears his clothes like rags, and never does any work, and is notoriously the dirtiest little ‘corridor-caution’ in the Coll., something’s wrong somewhere.” “That’s Clewer,” said McTurk under his breath. “Yes, Clewer. He comes to me for his French. It’s his first term, and he’s almost as complete a wreck as you were, Beetle. He’s not naturally clever, but he has been hammered till he’s nearly an idiot.” “Oh, no. They sham silly to get off more tickings,” said Beetle. “_I_ know that.” “I’ve never actually seen him knocked about,” said the Reverend John. “The genuine article don’t do that in public,” said Beetle. “Fairburn never touched me when any one was looking on.” “You needn’t swagger about it, Beetle,” said McTurk. “We all caught it in our time.” “But I got it worse than any one,” said Beetle. “If you want an authority on bullyin’, Padre, come to me. Corkscrews--brush-drill keys--head-knucklin’--arm-twistin’--rockin’--Ag Ags--and all the rest of it.” “Yes. I do want you as an authority, or rather I want your authority to stop it--all of you.” “What about Abana and Pharpar, Padre--Harrison and Craye? They are Mr. Prout’s pets,” said McTurk a little bitterly. “_We_ aren’t even sub-prefects.” “I’ve considered that, but on the other hand, since most bullying is mere thoughtlessness--” “Not one little bit of it, Padre,” said McTurk. “Bullies like bullyin’. They mean it. They think it up in lesson and practise it in the quarters.” “Never mind. If the thing goes up to the prefects it may make another house-row. You’ve had one already. Don’t laugh. Listen to me. I ask you--my own Tenth Legion--to take the thing up quietly. I want little Clewer made to look fairly clean and decent--” “Blowed if _I_ wash him!” whispered Stalky. “Decent and self-respecting. As for the other boy, whoever he is, you can use your influence”--a purely secular light flickered in the chaplain’s eye--“in any way you please to--to dissuade him. That’s all. I’ll leave it to you. Good-night, _mes enfants_.” * * * * * “Well, what are we goin’ to do?” Number Five stared at each other. “Young Clewer would give his eyes for a place to be quiet in. _I_ know that,” said Beetle. “If we made him a study-fag, eh?” “No!” said McTurk firmly. “He’s a dirty little brute, and he’d mess up everything. Besides, we ain’t goin’ to have any beastly Erickin’. D’you want to walk about with your arm round his neck?” “He’d clean out the jam-pots, anyhow; an’ the burnt-porridge saucepan--it’s filthy now.” “Not good enough,” said Stalky, bringing up both heels with a crash on the table. “If we find the merry jester who’s been bullyin’ him an’ make him happy, that’ll be all right. Why didn’t we spot him when we were in the form-rooms, though?” “Maybe a lot of fags have made a dead set at Clewer. They do that sometimes.”