Stalky & Co., Rudyard Kipling [good beach reads .TXT] 📗

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.”

Then McTurk turned on Stalky and called him very evil names.

“You said you were goin’ to cock-fight too, Stalky. Come on!”

“More ass you for believin’ me, then!” shrieked Stalky.

“Have you chaps had a row?” said Campbell. “Row?” said Stalky. “Huh! I’m only educatin’ them. D’you know anythin’ about cock-fighting, Seffy?”

“Do I know? Why, at Maclagan’s, where I was crammin’ in town, we used to cock-fight in his drawing-room, and little Maclagan daren’t say anything. But we were just the same as men there, of course. Do I know? I‘ll show you.”

“Can’t I get up?” moaned Beetle, as Stalky sat on his shoulder.

“Don’t jaw, you fat piffler. You’re going to fight Seffy.”

“He’ll slay me!”

“Oh, lug ‘em into our study,” said Campbell. “It’s nice an’ quiet in there. I’ll cock-fight Turkey. This is an improvement on young Clewer.”

“Right O! I move it’s shoes-off for them an’ shoes-on for us,” said Sefton joyously, and the two were flung down on the study floor. Stalky rolled them behind an arm-chair. “Now I’ll tie you two up an’ direct the bull-fight. Golly, what wrists you have, Seffy. They’re too thick for a wipe; got a box-rope?” said he.

“Lots in the corner,” Sefton replied. “Hurry up! Stop blubbin’, you brute, Beetle. We’re goin’ to have a giddy campaign. Losers have to sing for the winners—sing odes in honor of the conqueror. You call yourself a beastly poet, don’t you, Beetle? I’ll poet you.”

He wriggled into position by Campbell’s side. Swiftly and scientifically the stumps were thrust through the natural crooks, and the wrists tied with well-stretched box-ropes to an accompaniment of insults from McTurk, bound, betrayed, and voluble behind the chair. Stalky set away Campbell and Sefton, and strode over to his allies, locking the door on the way.

“And that’s all right,” said he in a changed voice.

“What the devil—?” Sefton began. Beetle’s false tears had ceased; McTurk, smiling, was on his feet. Together they bound the knees and ankles of the enemy even more straitly.

Stalky took the arm-chair and contemplated the scene with his blandest smile. A man trussed for cook-fighting is, perhaps, the most helpless thing in the world.

“‘The bleatin’ of the kid excites the tiger.’ Oh, you frabjous asses!” He lay back and laughed till he could no more. The victims took in the situation but slowly. “We’ll give you the finest lickin’ you ever had in your young lives when we get up!” thundered Sefton from the floor. “You’ll laugh the other side of your mouth before you’ve done. What the deuce d’you mean by this?”

“You’ll see in two shakes,” said McTurk. “Don’t swear like that. What we want to know is, why you two hulkin’ swine have been bullyin’ Clewer?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“What did you bully Clewer for?” The question was repeated with maddening iteration by each in turn. They knew their work.

“Because we jolly well chose!” was the answer at last. “Let’s get up.” Even then they could not realize the game.

“Well, now we’re goin’ to bully you because we jolly well choose. We’re goin’ to be just as fair to you as you were to Clewer. He couldn’t do anything against you. You can’t do anything to us. Odd, ain’t it?”

“Can’t we? You wait an’ see.”

“Ah,” said Beetle reflectively, “that shows you’ve never been properly jested with. A public lickin’ ain’t in it with a gentle jape. Bet a bob you’ll weep an’ promise anything.”

“Look here, young Beetle, we’ll half kill you when we get up. I’ll promise you that, at any rate.”

“You’re going to be half killed first, though. Did you give Clewer Head-knuckles?”

“Did you give Clewer Head-knuckles?” McTurk echoed. At the twentieth repetition—no boy can stand the torture of one unvarying query, which is the essence of bullying—came confession.

“We did, confound you!”

“Then you’ll be knuckled;” and knuckled they were, according to ancient experience. Head-knuckling is no trifle; “Molly” Fairburn of the old days could not have done better.

“Did you give Clewer Brush-drill?” This time the question was answered sooner, and Brush-drill was dealt out for the space of five minutes by Stalky’s watch. They could not even writhe in their bonds. No brush is employed in Brush-drill.

“Did you give Clewer the Key?”

“No; we didn’t. I swear we didn’t!” from Campbell, rolling in agony.

“Then we’ll give it to you, so you can see what it would be like if you had.”

The torture of the Key—which has no key at all—hurts excessively. They endured several minutes of it, and their language necessitated the gag.

“Did you give Clewer Corkscrews?”

“Yes. Oh, curse your silly souls! Let us alone, you cads.”

They were corkscrewed, and the torture of the Corkscrew—this has nothing to do with corkscrews—is keener than the torture of the Key.

The method and silence of the attacks was breaking their nerves. Between each new torture came the pitiless, dazing rain of questions, and when they did not answer to the point, Isabella-colored handkerchiefs were thrust into their mouths.

“Now are those all the things you did to Clewer? Take out the gag, Turkey, and let ‘em answer.”

“Yes, I swear that was all. Oh, you’re killing us, Stalky!” cried Campbell.

“Precisely what Clewer said to you. I heard him. Now we’re goin’ to show you what real bullyin’ is. ‘What I don’t like about you, Sefton, is, you come to the Coll. with your stick-up collars an’ patent-leather boots, an’ you think you can teach us something about bullying. Do you think you can teach us anything about bullying? Take out the gag and let him answer.”

“No!”—ferociously.

“He says no. Rock him to sleep. Campbell can watch.”

It needs three beys and two boxing-gloves to rock a boy to sleep. Again the operation has nothing to do with its name. Sefton was “rocked” till his eyes set in his head and he gasped and crowed for breath, sick and dizzy.

“My Aunt!” said Campbell, appalled, from his corner, and turned white.

“Put him away,” said Stalky. “Bring on Campbell. Now this is bullyin’. Oh, I forgot! I say, Campbell, what did you bully Clewer for? Take out his gag and let him answer.”

“I—I don’t know. Oh, let me off! I swear I’ll make it pax. Don’t ‘rock’ me!”

“‘The bleatin’ of the kid excites the tiger.’ He says he don’t know. Set him up, Beetle. Give me the glove an’ put in the gag.”

In silence Campbell was “rocked” sixty-four times.

“I believe I’m goin’ to die!” he gasped. “He says he is goin’ to die. Put him away. Now, Sefton! Oh, I forgot! Sefton, what did you bully Clewer for?”

The answer is unprintable; but it brought not the faintest flush to Stalky’s downy cheek.

“Make him an Ag Ag, Turkey!”

And an Ag Ag was he made, forthwith. The hard-bought experience of nearly eighteen years was at his disposal, but he did not seem to appreciate it.

“He says we are sweeps. Put him away! Now, Campbell! Oh, I forgot! I say, Campbell, what did you bully Clewer for?”

Then came the tears—scalding tears; appeals for mercy and abject promises of peace. Let them cease the tortures and Campbell would never lift hand against them. The questions began again—to an accompaniment of small persuasions.

“You seem hurt, Campbell. Are you hurt?”

“Yes. Awfully!”

“He says he is hurt. Are you broke?”

“Yes, yes! I swear I am. Oh, stop!”

“He says he is broke. Are you humble?”

“Yes!”

“He says he is humble. Are you devilish humble?”

“Yes!”

“He says he is devilish humble. Will you bully Clewer any more?”

“No. No—ooh!”

“He says he won’t bully Clewer. Or any one else?”

“No. I swear I won’t.”

“Or any one else. What about that lickin’ you and Sefton were goin’ to give us?”

“I won’t! I won’t! I swear I won’t!”

“He says he won’t lick us. Do you esteem yourself to know anything about bullyin’?”

“No, I don’t!”

“He says he doesn’t know anything about bullyin’. Haven’t we taught you a lot?”

“Yes—yes!”

“He says we’ve taught him a lot. Aren’t you grateful?”

“Yes!”

“He says he is grateful. Put him away. Oh, I forgot! I say, Campbell, what did you bully Clewer for?”

He wept anew; his nerves being raw. “Because I was a bully. I suppose that’s what you want me to say?”

“He says he is a bully. Right he is. Put him in the corner. No more japes for Campbell. Now, Sefton!”

“You devils! You young devils!” This and much more as Sefton was punted across the carpet by skilful knees.

“‘The bleatin’ of the kid excites the tiger.’ We’re goin’ to make you beautiful. Where does he keep his shaving things? [Campbell told.] Beetle, get some water. Turkey, make the lather. We’re goin’ to shave you, Seffy, so you’d better lie jolly still, or you’ll get cut. I’ve never shaved any one before.”

“Don’t! Oh, don’t! Please don’t!”

“Gettin’ polite, eh? I’m only goin’ to take off one ducky little whisker—”

“I’ll—I’ll make it pax, if you don’t. I swear I’ll let you off your lickin’ when I get up!”

“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