“Then we’ll have to kick the whole of the lower school in our house--on spec. Come on,” said McTurk. “Keep your hair on! We mustn’t make a fuss about the biznai. Whoever it is he’s kept quiet or we’d have seen him,” said Stalky. “We’ll walk round and sniff about till we’re sure.” They drew the house form-rooms, accounting for every junior and senior against whom they had suspicions; investigated, at Beetle’s suggestion, the lavatories and box-rooms, but without result. Everybody seemed to be present save Clewer. “Rum!” said Stalky, pausing outside a study door. “Golly!” A thin piping mixed with tears came muffled through the panels. “‘As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping--’” “Louder, you young devil, or I’ll buzz a book at you!” “_With a pitcher of milk--_ Oh, Campbell, _please_ don’t! _To the fair of--_” A book crashed on something soft, and squeals arose. “Well, I never thought it was a study-chap, anyhow. That accounts for our not spotting him,” said Beetle. “Sefton and Campbell are rather hefty chaps to tackle. Besides, one can’t go into their study like a form-room.” “What swine!” McTurk listened. “Where’s the fun of it? I suppose Clewer’s faggin’ for them.” “They aren’t prefects. That’s one good job,” said Stalky, with his war-grin. “Sefton and Campbell! Um! Campbell and Sefton! Ah! One of ’em’s a crammer’s pup.” The two were precocious hairy youths between seventeen and eighteen, sent to the school in despair by parents who hoped that six months’ steady cram might, perhaps, jockey them into Sandhurst. Nominally they were in Mr. Prout’s house; actually they were under the Head’s eye; and since he was very careful never to promote strange new boys to prefectships, they considered they had a grievance against the school. Sefton had spent three months with a London crammer, and the tale of his adventures there lost nothing in the telling. Campbell, who had a fine taste in clothes and a fluent vocabulary, followed his lead in looking down loftily on the rest of the world. This was only their second term, and the school, used to what it profanely called “crammers’ pups,” had treated them with rather galling reserve. But their whiskers--Sefton owned a real razor--and their mustaches were beyond question impressive. “Shall we go in an’ dissuade ’em?” McTurk asked. “I’ve never had much to do with ’em, but I’ll bet my hat Campbell’s a funk.” “No--o! That’s _oratio directa_,” said Stalky, shaking his head. “I like _oratio obliqua_. ’Sides, where’d our moral influence be then? Think o’ that!” “Rot! What are you goin’ to do?” Beetle turned into Lower Number Nine form-room, next door to the study. “Me?” The lights of war flickered over Stalky’s face. “Oh, I want to jape with ’em. Shut up a bit!”