'An' then . . . They've been calling us stinkers, you know. We might shove somethin' under—sulphur, or something that stunk pretty bad—an' stink 'em out. I know it can be done somehow.' Beetle's eyes turned to Stalky handling the diagrams.
'Stinks?' said Stalky interrogatively. Then his face grew luminous with delight. 'By gum! I've got it. Horrid stinks! Turkey!' He leaped at the Irishman. 'This afternoon—just after Beetle went away! She's the very thing!'
'Come to my arms, my beamish boy,' carolled M'Turk, and they fell into each other's arms dancing. 'Oh, frabjous day! Calloo, callay! She will! She will!'
'Hold on,' said Beetle. 'I don't understand.'
'Dearr man! It shall, though. Oh, Artie, my pure-souled youth, let us tell our darling Reggie about Pestiferous Stinkadores.'
'Not until after call-over. Come on!'
'I say,' said Orrin stiffly, as they fell into their places along the walls of the gymnasium. 'The house are goin' to hold another meeting.'
'Hold away, then.' Stalky's mind was elsewhere.
'It's about you three this time.'
'All right, give 'em my love. . . . Here, sir,' and he tore down the corridor.
Gambolling like kids at play, with bounds and side-starts, with caperings and curvetings, they led the almost bursting Beetle to the rabbit-lane, and from under a pile of stones drew forth the new-slain corpse of a cat. Then did Beetle see the
