He drove his hands into his pockets and stared out of window at the sea, whistling between his teeth. Then a foot tapped the floor; one shoulder lifted; he wheeled, and began the short quick double-shuffle--the war-dance of Stalky in meditation. Thrice he crossed the empty form-room, with compressed lips and expanded nostrils, swaying to the quick-step. Then he halted before the dumb Beetle and softly knuckled his head, Beetle bowing to the strokes. McTurk nursed one knee and rocked to and fro. They could hear Clewer howling as though his heart would break. “Beetle is the sacrifice,” Stalky said at last, “I’m sorry for you, Beetle. ’Member Galton’s ‘Art of Travel’ [one of the forms had been studying that pleasant work] an’ the kid whose bleatin’ excited the tiger?” “Oh, curse!” said Beetle uneasily. It was not his first season as a sacrifice. “Can’t you get on without me?” “’Fraid not, Beetle, dear. You’ve got to be bullied by Turkey an’ me. The more you howl, o’ course, the better it’ll be. Turkey, go an’ covet a stump and a box-rope from somewhere. We’ll tie him up for a kill--_à la_ Galton. ’Member when ‘Molly’ Fairburn made us cock-fight with our shoes off, an’ tied up our knees?” “But that hurt like sin.” “Course it did. What a clever chap you are, Beetle! Turkey’ll knock you all over the place. ’Member we’ve had a big row all round, an’ I’ve trapped you into doin’ this. Lend us your wipe.” Beetle was trussed for cock-fighting; but, in addition to the transverse stump between elbow and knee, his knees were bound with a box-rope. In this posture, at a push from Stalky he rolled over sideways, covering himself with dust. “Ruffle his hair, Turkey. Now you get down, too. ‘The bleatin’ of the kid excites the tiger.’ You two are in such a sweatin’ wax with me that you only curse. ’Member that. I’ll tickle you up with a stump. You’ll have to blub, Beetle.” “Right O! I’ll work up to it in half a shake,” said Beetle. “Now begin--and remember the bleatin’ o’ the kid.” “Shut up, you brutes! Let me up! You’ve nearly cut my knees off. Oh, you _are_ beastly cads! _Do_ shut up. ’Tisn’t a joke!” Beetle’s protest was, in tone, a work of art. “Give it to him, Turkey! Kick him! Roll him over! Kill him! Don’t funk, Beetle, you brute. Kick him again, Turkey.” “He’s not blubbin’ really. Roll up, Beetle, or I’ll kick you into the fender,” roared McTurk. They made a hideous noise among them, and the bait allured their quarry. “Hullo! What’s the giddy jest?” Sefton and Campbell entered to find Beetle on his side, his head against the fender, weeping copiously, while McTurk prodded him in the back with his toes. “It’s only Beetle,” Stalky explained. “He’s shammin’ hurt. I can’t get Turkey to go for him properly.” Sefton promptly kicked both boys, and his face lighted. “All right, I’ll attend to ’em. Get up an’ cock-fight, you two. Give me the stump. I’ll tickle ’em. Here’s a giddy jest! Come on, Campbell. Let’s cook ’em.”