“_And_ half that mustache we’re so proud of. He says he’ll let us off our lickin’. Isn’t he kind?” McTurk laughed into the nickel-plated shaving-cup, and settled Sefton’s head between Stalky’s vise-like knees. “Hold on a shake,” said Beetle, “you can’t shave long hairs. You’ve got to cut all that mustache short first, an’ then scrape him.” “Well, I’m not goin’ to hunt about for scissors. Won’t a match do? Chuck us the match-box. He _is_ a hog, you know; we might as well singe him. Lie still!” He lit a vesta, but checked his hand. “I only want to take off half, though.” “That’s all right.” Beetle waved the brush. “I’ll lather up to the middle--see? and you can burn off the rest.” The thin-haired first mustache of youth fluffed off in flame to the lather-line in the centre of the lip, and Stalky rubbed away the burnt stumpage with his thumb. It was not a very gentle shave, but it abundantly accomplished its purpose. “Now the whisker on the other side. Turn him over!” Between match and razor this, too, was removed. “Give him his shaving-glass. Take the gag out. I want to hear what he’ll say.” But there were no words. Sefton gazed at the lop-sided wreck in horror and despair. Two fat tears rolled down his cheek. “Oh, I forgot! I say, Sefton, what did you bully Clewer for?” “Leave me alone! Oh, you infernal bullies, leave me alone! Haven’t I had enough?” “He says we must leave him alone,” said McTurk. “He says we are bullies, an’ we haven’t even begun yet,” said Beetle. “You’re ungrateful, Seffy. Golly! You _do_ look an atrocity and a half!” “He says he has had enough,” said Stalky. “He errs!” “Well, to work, to work!” chanted McTurk, waving a stump. “Come on, my giddy Narcissus. Don’t fall in love with your own reflection!” “Oh, let him off,” said Campbell from his corner; “he’s blubbing, too.” Sefton cried like a twelve-year-old with pain, shame, wounded vanity, and utter helplessness. “You’ll make it _pax_, Sefton, won’t you? You can’t stand up to those young devils--” “Don’t be rude, Campbell, de-ah,” said McTurk, “or you’ll catch it again!” “You _are_ devils, you know,” said Campbell. “What? for a little bullyin’--same as you’ve been givin’ Clewer! How long have you been jestin’ with him?” said Stalky. “All this term?” “We didn’t always knock him about, though!” “You did when you could catch him,” said Beetle, cross-legged on the floor, dropping a stump from time to time across Sefton’s instep. “Don’t I know it!” “I--perhaps we did.” “And you went out of your way to catch him? Don’t I know it! Because he was an awful little beast, eh? Don’t I know it! Now, you see, _you_’re awful beasts, and you’re gettin’ what he got--for bein’ a beast. Just because we choose.” “We never really bullied him--like you’ve done us.”