The door opened and King came in, Hartopp's little figure just behind him. The mound on the floor panted and heaved but did not rise, for Winton still squirmed vengefully. 'Only a little play, sir,' said Perowne. ''Only hit my head against a form.' This was quite true.
'Oh,' said King. 'Dimovit obstantes propinquos. You, I presume, are the populus delaying Winton's return to—Mullins, eh?'
'No, sir,' said Stalky behind his claret-coloured handkerchief. 'We're the maerentes amicos.'
'Not bad! You see, some of it sticks after all,' King chuckled to Hartopp, and the two masters left without further inquiries.
The boys sat still on the now passive Winton.
'Well,' said Stalky at last, 'of all the putrid he-asses, Pater, you are the'
'I'm sorry. I'm awfully sorry,' Winton began, and they let him rise. He held out his hand to the bruised and bewildered Vernon. 'Sorry, Paddy. I—I must have lost my temper. I—I don't know what's the matter with me.'
''Fat lot of good that'll do my face at tea,' Vernon grunted. 'Why couldn't you say there was something wrong with you instead of lamming out like a lunatic? Is my lip puffy?'
'Just a trifle. Look at my beak! Well, we got all these pretty marks at footer—owin' to the zeal with which we played the game,' said Stalky, dusting himself. 'But d'you think you're fit to be let loose again, Pater? 'Sure you don't want to kill another sub-prefect? I wish I was Pot. I'd cut your sprightly young soul out.'
