d the gymnasium door locked and a
fag on guard. "This is sweet cheek," said McTurk, stooping.

"Mustn't look through the key-hole," said the sentry.

"I like that. Why, Wake, you little beast, I made you a volunteer."

"Can't help it. My orders are not to allow any one to look."

"S'pose we do?" said McTurk. "S'pose we jolly well slay you?"

"My orders are, I am to give the name of anybody who interfered with
me on my post, to the corps, an' they'd deal with him after drill,
accordin' to martial law."

"What a brute Stalky is!" said Beetle. They never doubted for a moment
who had devised that scheme.

"You esteem yourself a giddy centurion, don't you?" said Beetle,
listening to the crash and rattle of grounded arms within.

"My ordcrs are, not to talk except to explain my orders--they'll lick me
if I do."

McTurk looked at Beetle. The two shook their heads and turned away.

"I swear Stalky _is_ a great man," said Beetle after a long pause. "One
consolation is that this sort of secret-society biznai will drive King
wild."

It troubled many more than King, but the members of the corps were muter
than oysters. Foxy, being bound by no vow, carried his woes to Keyte.

"I never come across such nonsense in my life. They've tiled the lodge,
inner and outer guard, all complete, and then they get to work, keen as
mustard."

"But what's it all for?" asked the ex-Troop Sergeant-Major.

"To learn their drill. You never saw anything like it. They begin after
I've dismissed 'em--practisin' tricks; but out into the open they will
_not_ come--not for ever so. The 'ole thing is pre-posterous. If you're
a cadet-corps, _I_ say, be a cadet-corps, instead o' hidin' be'ind
locked doors."

"And what do the authorities say about it?"

"That beats me again." The Sergeant spoke fretfully. "I go to the 'Ead
an' 'e gives me no help. There's times when I think he's makin' fun o'
me. I've never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God--but I've always had
the consideration to pity 'em. I'm glad o' that."

"I'd like to see 'em," said Keyte. "From your statements, Sergeant, I
can't get at what they're after."

"Don't ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He's their
generalissimo."

One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook
within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick,
tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch.

"They shape well. They shape uncommon well,"