For just one minute Rouse had stood at his window staring like one transfixed into the night, his head a little to one side as if in hopes of catching the gist of Pointon’s words. This had been hopeless. The distance was too great and the breeze was blowing away from Morley’s. In the growing dusk it had even been difficult to distinguish the crowd of waiting boys outside the Head’s room sufficiently clearly to gather from the sight how things were going.

One sign alone gave him his cue. It was the silence.

He had hoped forlornly for an outburst of fanatical cheering. That would have meant that the day was won, that his selection stood, that the coming year, in spite of these troublous opening days, would not, after all, be lean. No sound whatever came. The hush was ominous. For just that minute he stood, a lonely figure, at his open study window. Then the answer reached him in a way that was unmistakable.

The night was suddenly broken by a roar of clashing voices, a riotous outburst of fierce cries, then the whole assembly was in sudden movement. He strained his eyes for a clear sight of what was happening, tried all he knew to catch the sense of all the clamour. No set phrase reached him. All he could properly distinguish here and there in the turmoil was the sound of his own name shouted again and again as if in passionate loyalty by many voices that he could not recognise.

But it was evidence enough. The last resort of discipline had failed. The school had been irremediably snubbed. And, as he waited, there came to him an almost dreaded thought. The school would still not take it. He read this as the message of that chaotic shouting. They were coming for him. The Head had dragged him from his high estate and the school would not lie down that night until they had hoisted him up again, if only to see him enthroned upon their shoulders as a little tin god, idolised and ten times as strongly established as their captain now than ever before, whatever the Head might have to say.

It came to Rouse as a fear.

He imagined himself hatefully in the limelight, a puffed-up and imaginary hero without just cause. He had some inkling now as to the temper of the school and he knew what it would mean.

He listened again. They were certainly coming towards him. Above the lasting din he could still hear his own name shouted ever and again. He looked round his study nervously, suddenly spotted the lofty cupboard, darted into it and shut the door gingerly behind him.

Two minutes later the clatter of a great stampede was breaking the peace of Morley’s. He crouched in his hiding-place and scarcely dared to breathe. Soon the forerunners were pounding up the stairs and along the passage shouting his name in turn as they came, with a desperate affection that would not be denied.

The door of his study flew open and he heard them tumble in one after the other, and finally cry the news back to those behind.

“He isn’t here. He’s gone!”

This meant no ending to the uproar. He heard the message passed to those on the road outside, in high-pitched voices that clamoured for ideas as to where he could be hiding. Then those below, realising that they would now be foremost in the search, turned excitedly, scrunching the gravel underfoot, and made off towards the school again. But those who were in the house intended first to make a proper job of it, while they were here, and he heard them running like a pack of hounds into the common room, and down to the dining-hall below, whilst all the time they shouted for him pleadingly, hoping against vain hope that he would answer and produce himself at last.

Then, in the end, they seemed resolved that he was nowhere there, and off they set in a stern chase after the body of the hunt, racing across the open spaces towards the school again.

He heard the placid tones of Mr Morley feebly remonstrating, then threatening angrily, and towards the end entreating with them, but he was brushed aside by mere strength of numbers and left in the hall of his house shouting mildly after them to show their common-sense and keep the peace.

All this Rouse could hear and understand, and when the house seemed quiet again he very cautiously opened the cupboard door and stretched himself. Next moment he received the surprise of his life. The light was suddenly switched on and revealed him. At the same time Terence Nicholson spoke.

“Come out,” said he. “Come along out, there’s a good fellow.”

For a fleeting space Rouse was absolutely nonplussed and he could only stare. Then he recovered himself with a miraculous effort, brushed his clothes with his hand and stepped daintily out of the cupboard.

“Absolutely NO deception,” he observed. “Any gentleman in the audience is fully at liberty to come up and examine both the lady and the box.” He paused. “Nobody? I thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your very kind attention.” He bowed, paused again, rendered the National Anthem as a cornet solo, cried: “Pass out quickly, please!” and finally stepped up to Terence, who was regarding him with an affectionate pity and faced him defiantly.

“Now, how did you know I was in that cupboard?” said he. “And how on earth did you come into this room without my hearing you?”

“Elementary,” said Terence, “my jolly old Dr Watson. I came in with the mob. When they ran out again I stayed here and slipped behind the door. Nobody missed me, and as soon as they’d cleared off I simply waited for you to come out. You see, old boy, there’s always something wrong with your schemes. The light from the passage, for example, shone directly upon the cupboard door, and it lit up with strange distinctness a tuft of your coat which was protruding through the slit between the door and the cupboard.”

Rouse regarded his coat critically.

“A nice piece of material, too,” said he. “Try the feel of it, sir.”

Terence smiled grimly.

“As soon as I saw you were apparently not here, though, I of course looked towards that cupboard first.”

“Thinking,” said Rouse gently, “to reach yourself a piece of pie so soon as the place was clear. I’m inclined to think, young Nicholson, that you were as surprised as I was.”

Terence made an abrupt gesture.

“The Head’s given his answer.”

“What is it?”

Terence told him.

“The name of the new Rugger captain,” said he, “is Roe.”

Rouse looked him through and through, the while his expression slowly changed from one of puzzled misunderstanding to one of set resignation.

He asked no questions. He just thought it out for himself whilst Terence watched him. It was no use saying: “What do you mean?” The words were an explanation in themselves. At last, however, he spoke. His face was a little drawn and his eyes shone with an almost feverish light, but his voice was natural.

“Roe?” said he brightly. “Not young Roe, the son of old Roe?”

Terence nodded.

“Soft Roe, I expect,” continued Rouse, “the son of hard Roe.”

There came a brief silence. Terence was clearly disinclined for mere frivolity. He sat down at the table and supported his chin with both hands.

Rouse gazed at him fondly.

“What an awful shame it is that all this trouble is about me. If only you’d been the one, what a difference it would have made now. So far as Rugger is concerned I do certainly believe I could have made a real success of things, but instead of that you see what’s happening. Within twenty-four hours I shall be looked to to lead a revolution. And,” he added forcefully, “if you can imagine for one moment the buffoon I should look strutting at the head of a mutinous procession in a red nightcap, beating the air with a piece of old iron, you can see at once how impossible it’s going to be. I tell you frankly, Nick, I shall be no good at it at all....” He paused. “If only it had been you all the fuss was about, nobody could have preached rebellion from the top of an egg-box with greater vehemence than I. No paid agitator could ever be a more successful firebrand. I should have thoroughly had my heart in the thing. As it is, I’m merely going to feel an unutterable fool from start to finish. I’ve taken to blushing already—and any advertisement will tell you what an awkward habit that is.” He sighed. “Besides,” he added, “what line are we going to adopt? Do you suppose the fellow wants to come here? If he’s anything of a man at all he’ll be fed up to the teeth at leaving Wilton to come here like this. Supposing he refuses to take it on. What then?”

“The Head didn’t speak as though there was any chance of him refusing to take it on,” said Terence. “He seems to have him pretty securely under his thumb.”

Rouse shook his head gloomily.

“I’d far rather keep out of this. I’m beginning to feel unpleasantly like a man trying to get elected for Parliament. Every time I say anything decent to a chap I wonder whether he thinks I’m only saying it so as to get his vote. I’ve a very strong desire to slide away quietly and hide under a leaf.”

“I know,” said Terence; “it isn’t for you to head a revolution. But if they need someone to show ’em the way they haven’t got far to look. If they want a leader—there’s me. I know you better than anyone else.... I’m captain of cricket, too, and I know what’s wanted in the fellow that skippers the school. That’s why I know what they’ve missed in losing you. And this madman—who is he?—a stranger to the school—a miserable outcast—whose first week’s work has been to trample down all the school traditions and snub six hundred fellows with a snap of his fingers. He’ll have to give in. Now that I come to think of it, I shouldn’t be surprised if Toby fights on our side himself. All I can say is that if he does the new Head’s well beaten from the start.”

“Let’s go out for a stroll,” said Rouse. “No one will go to bed yet awhile, and that horde of savages will be coming back after me in a minute. We will escape into the night.”

They moved out of the study and down the corridor slowly and in silence. There was still an uncanny quiet about the house. Their footsteps echoed from end to end of the passage.

“Seems queer, doesn’t it?” said Terence. “Like being at school in holiday time.”

But on the floor below they heard voices. They were not distinct but they were undoubtedly excited. It seemed that three or four people must be debating some dark point behind the closed door of a study. Then turning a corner they came unexpectedly upon the figure of Bobbie Carr, his back against the wall, his thoughts evidently far away. His eyes were fixed absent-mindedly on the study door, and at first he did not hear footsteps. Looking up suddenly and noticing who came, he shot into an attitude of alertness and watched them uncertainly. They stopped and smiled at him.

“Were you responsible for any of that hullabaloo outside?” demanded Rouse. “Was that you calling out my name about ten minutes ago?”

“I did cheer a bit,” admitted Bobbie. “Everyone’s looking for you. They want to chair you round the school. They’re thinking of burning an effigy of the Head too. Only they can’t find anything suitable to burn.”

Terence slowly nodded his head. Next moment he had turned sharply. The sound of those high-pitched voices had broken out anew. There was no doubt now whence they came. They came from Coles’ study, and one of the most prominent amongst them was the voice of Coles. He was addressing his friends as “Gentlemen!” with a peculiar frequency; also his voice had a froggy croak.

Rouse turned his head and looked queerly at the door, glanced once at Terence and finally bent a questioning eye on Bobbie.

“Are you... waiting for Coles?”

Bobbie looked at them, in turn, in evident distress, and made no answer. So they waited a moment, looked once again towards the door, and then proceeded thoughtfully upon their way.

Outside Morley’s they turned behind the house and strolled slowly under the trees. Here was a point of vantage from which they could dimly see the school; the still turbulent ranks of rebels arm-in-arm were goose-stepping proudly up and down before the Head’s room, waiting as if for news that Rouse had been unearthed, and all at once Terence found himself distracted by an unexpected turn of events. It was the sound of cautious footsteps on the gravel, and when he saw who was passing he laid a hand upon Rouse’s arm and silently drew him round. Then, with a finger upon his lips, he pointed with the other hand towards the wall of Morley’s.

It was none other than Henry Hope, and he was making his way laboriously alongside the wall. Now and again he looked up at the windows and paused as if guided by the increasing sounds of revelry that came from the only occupied study in all the building.

Neither of the two who watched him as he moved was quite clear what he was about, but the sight was exceedingly diverting, and a slow and puzzled smile came into Rouse’s countenance.

“It’s Coles he’s after,” whispered Terence, after careful observation. “What’s he going to do?”

“Heave a brick at his window, perchance,” said Rouse, hoarse with delight. “He’s got an idea that Coles has some mysterious kind of hold over that kid Carr, and he says the way to find out what it is is to get a hold on Coles. He’s starting by getting a hold on the drain-pipe, you see. I hope he won’t let go. I shouldn’t at all like to see our Henry a mere splash of vermilion on the gravel path. Fancy having to clean up Henry with a spade....”

His voice trailed away into silence.

Slowly, and with considerable difficulty, Henry laboured up the pipe. Once he paused and seemed to be grunting out a prayer for the strength with which to continue. He looked down dizzily, then up again, and finally, after a battle with his nerves, continued the perilous ascent. At last he came opposite Coles’ window. He reached out a hand like that of some family ghost, clutched the window-ledge, and drew himself up to a moderately secure position. The moment had clearly come for the dÉnouement.

Henry was the master-detective in his element. He pulled his cap furtively over one eye. Then he raised his hand and rapped three times upon the window-pane. There came a sharp silence in the room, and afterwards a sudden scuffle over chairs. Evidently Henry was to be rewarded. Somebody could be heard coming to the window. Henry gritted his teeth. He was going to see inside that room. He was going to get a hold on Coles. He became absolutely tense with expectation. Assuredly Coles would never dare to push him off the pipe. Coles was not prepared to commit a horrid murder. Also his rear was safe from attack. Coles could not kick him. The only possibility was that Coles might run out of the house and throw pebbles. He was going to risk this. He would have seen inside the room anyway.

When at last the blind was slowly lifted, those within sustained a terrible shock. Henry had thrust his face against the window so that his nose was flatly upturned, hideous and blue, against the glass. The row of faces that confronted him, the faces of Coles’ cronies, all slowly backed terror-stricken before the alarming apparition, till only the face of Coles was left, livid with fury and flushed with spirits flowing from a teapot. He slowly pushed up the window, then his face came forward telescopically on the end of a long neck until his beak-like nose was almost touching Henry’s cheeks.

“You cur,” said Coles, between his clenched teeth. “What—what on earth are you doing here?”

Henry quailed. Coles was too terrible for words. Nevertheless he peered over the tops of his spectacles resolutely into the study, and at last, still trying to be brave, he spoke in a deep voice:

“I wanted to see inside your study. Thank you very much, I’ve seen all I want to see.”

Coles lifted his fist to strike, but realising the danger of a blow he suddenly altered his mind and adopted a novel form of revenge that had never come into Henry’s reckoning.

He called his friends forward.

“You see this,” said he, “a kid here spying—the kid Hope! I want you to remember this.” He turned to Henry. “You know what happened to Peeping Tom, don’t you? He tried to spy and he was sent blind—blind, I tell you. We shall try the effect of that upon you.”

He slowly stretched out his hands till they reached Henry’s face, and Henry was powerless to resist. With considerable delight he slowly unhooked Henry’s glasses from his ears and withdrew them from Henry’s face. He held them in his fingers with an air of fastidious disgust, looking at them and at Henry, and in the end he whirled his arm like a lasso-king and let them go. They flew into the night, and he heard them break on the gravel path into a hundred pieces. Then he shook his fist in Henry’s face.

“Now,” said he, “see whatever you like, and when you’re tired slide down—and look out for the bump at the bottom.”

He withdrew his head with a wrathful jerk, pulled down the blind again, and after a moment Henry heard his voice coming from within again.

“Now, gentlemen,” it was saying, “I think I’ll just go downstairs and meet him.”

For a moment Henry hung impotently where he was, a veritable monkey on a stick. He looked downwards. He could see nothing. The night was dark, and without his glasses he could scarcely distinguish the fingers upon his hand. He felt for a grip. At last in utter misery and despair he began to slip awkwardly down the pipe, and even as he went he heard Coles come out of the house and shout to him:

“You may as well hurry up. The longer you stay there the worse it will be for you when you get to the bottom.”

Henry looked down again. He could still distinguish nothing. He could only feel his way. As his feet touched the ground Coles would leap upon him out of the night. He would never see him coming. He would be unable to protect himself in any way. Above all, he would have to stagger to bed afterwards without his glasses. He would not even be able to find the frames. Only the really short-sighted can understand what misery was his just then.

He went down stiffly, hand over hand, trying to keep his lips from trembling. At last he felt the gravel under his feet, released his hold of the drain-pipe and stood upright. From out the darkness Coles spoke.

“Now,” said he, “you can make ready for the biggest hiding you ever had.”

Henry backed against the wall and tried to make out Coles’ expression by screwing up his eyes till only little bead points of watery blue were showing. It was no good. Coles was merely a vast blur blotting out all hope. He felt a large hand upon his collar.

“Now,” said Coles.

And then, dramatically, there came from under the trees a sharp command.

“Let him alone!”

Henry shot to his full height, galvanised into hysterical delight. Glasses or no glasses, he knew that for the voice of Rouse.

He was saved.

Coles spun on his heel. Two forms were bearing down upon him out of the gloom, and he prepared for battle. He felt brave and bold, if a trifle uncertain upon his feet. He shot his cuffs and stretched out both hands ready to grasp these intruders in a bear-like hug. His face was flushed and excited, his temper was nearing boiling point. After a struggle he found his voice.

“Who is that?” he demanded. “Who’s that? Come out and face me here! Come out from under those trees, you creepy, crawly spies. Come out into the open!”

They came slowly towards him. As they drew near to Coles he recognised them suddenly, and his voice cracked in a scream of anger.

“W—what! YOU! Was it you sent this beastly little creature shinning up that drain-pipe? He’s spying for you, is he? Well, of all the rotten, low-down swine! D—d—d’you mean to say——”

“The only thing I mean to say,” said Rouse, “is that I perceive you to be tight.”

Coles bounded forward.

His words were not coherent. He only babbled. And when he could babble no more he struck out.

“That’s not where I am,” said Rouse. “You want to aim here.”

Coles turned dazedly, swinging both fists.

For a while they watched him with keen interest. Finally, as he spun round for the fifth time, Terence reached out and pushed him over.

“It’s the cold air doing it,” said Rouse, peering at him distastefully. “I should advise you to go in.”

Next moment Coles had scrambled to his feet again and was staring up at his window and shouting for assistance.

“Hi! Hi! Come down here. There’s a gang of them and they’re setting about me!”

Henry turned wretchedly to Rouse.

“My glasses,” said he. “Did you see them fall? D’you know where they are? I should very much like the frames. I’ll have to find the frames.”

Rouse made a few light passes over his hand, drew his cap from his head and held it over his outstretched hand. At last he slowly raised it by the tassel. The frames lay in his open palm.

“There they are, sir,” said he. “The same that you saw this gentleman throw into the audience.... Am I right, sir?”

He turned sharply. There had come a sudden clatter of feet upon the stairs of Morley’s and a handful of strangely excited young men were tumbling pell-mell out of the door. Nobody had noticed Coles. He appeared to have been merely waiting for aid. Yet at the sound of approaching friends he took courage again. He fixed Rouse with a watery eye, then he leaped viciously upon him from behind. His feet were intertwined with Rouse’s legs. There was a short sharp struggle. Next moment Rouse was free and had turned, judged his distance, and struck accurately and with full force. The blow took Coles on the cheek-bone and was altogether too much for him. He threw up his hands, spun sideways and fell on his back. And as he lay he moaned softly to himself:

“Come on, oh, come on, you chaps! They’re all setting about me... all of them.”

The chaps answered with a shout of allegiance and sprang upon his assailants. There were four of them, and the first ran into Terence’s straight left and recoiled with his hands to his face. The next seized Rouse in his arms and, loudly shouting, endeavoured to secure a ju-jitsu hold upon his neck. Rouse braced himself, wrenched away an arm and hit downwards with all his strength at the other’s chin.

The move was eminently successful, but it was too late. The last members of the party had come up, and one had sprung on to his back and was bearing him down. The other had almost got him by the ankles when Terence came down on top of him with the full weight of his body, and he met the gravel with his face.

Then, loud above the scuffling and the angry cries of those upon the ground, there sounded a deep-pitched angry bay. It was the sound of Henry in distress.

“Oh! Oh! I can’t see! I can’t see a thing! Who shall I hit? Where are they? What shall I do? I can’t see.”

“Well, have a look at the ground then,” shouted an angry young man, and with a violent push from the rear sent him headlong on to his face, where he lay stiffly still and only bellowed the louder.

“Who shall I hit, Terence, who shall I hit?”

The end came as abruptly as the start. They were suddenly all upon their feet and staring at each other.

“What on earth are you playing at?” demanded somebody. “What’s it all about anyway?”

“It’s about them,” cried Coles, walking forward like a somnambulist. “They’re spies.”

He lifted a hand and pointed at them stiffly.

Rouse made a gesture of appeal.

“If you fellows aren’t as bad as he is, take him in. He doesn’t look at all nice.”

He saw them looking at one another almost sheepishly, some even dazedly, then one of them heaved a sigh and reached out a courteous and helping hand towards Coles. The others gathered round. There was a slow and stately forward move.... Up the steps they went with their sorry leader, and out of sight into the house. Thus Rouse and Terence were left alone, each with a friendly hand upon Henry’s shoulder, as out of the darkness there came a small and shadowy form, and the weary voice of Bobbie Carr was wafted towards them upon the breeze.

“Can I do anything to help?” he was saying. “What is it? Can I do anything to help?”

Rouse beckoned to him.

“Yes,” said he, “you can. You can take Brighteyes to bed. He can’t see very plainly where he’s going.”

Bobbie came up to Henry and looked at him.

“What’s the matter, Hope?”

“It’s my glasses,” said Henry. “All I’ve got left is the frames.” He sighed lugubriously. “It doesn’t matter,” said he. “I’ve got a hold on Coles anyway, and it may be very useful.”

It was his farewell. Without another word he suffered himself to be led away into the house.

It was after the two who still remained had wandered on, skirting the school in order to save Rouse from his friends, that they met Toby. He was standing outside Seymour’s, smoking a pipe and talking to the house master. He came up to them and strolled side by side along the roadway until at last Terence said:

“It means rebellion, and if they want me to, I’m going to lead it.”

For a while Toby spoke no word. Only the smoke curled quietly upwards from his pipe.

Eventually he answered:

“Yes, of course. I don’t see how you can do anything else. There isn’t much doubt that by a step like this the Head has put himself outside the pale. The only thing is what line you ought to take.”

“Why, a rebellion,” said Terence again.

“If by a rebellion you mean making a cock-shy of the school, old son, I’m not sure that we shan’t be doing ourselves more harm than good. It doesn’t take much imagination to see what that will lead to. Sport—work—reputation—everything busted—and over the chaos of it all the villain sitting with a cheerful smile, whilst you take note what you’ve done for yourselves. We want to keep our dignity. We want to carry on so that any outsider who hears of this and can weigh both sides will have no doubt who was in the right. And, particularly, we want to fight as the Grey Man would have us fight.”

The changed expression on Terence’s face showed that he considered himself rebuked by one of the few men from whom he could take a rebuke in kindly spirit.

“What do you think we ought to do about it, then?”

“Listen,” said Toby, “and if an Old Boy may be allowed his say I will tell you.”

It was two minutes later when Rouse looked up with a start. Whilst he had been listening to that philosophical counsel Toby had shrewdly been guiding his footsteps towards the school. They had turned a corner, and now all three stopped short. They were on top of a vast, impatient throng.

“Go to them,” said Toby. “They’ve had their night out and when they’ve had you a bit p’r’aps they’ll go to bed without smashing anything. And if I were you I should tell them what you’re going to do. Let them into the secret. They’ll feel more satisfied then.” He gave Rouse a final pat on the back, then slipped away.

For a brief space Rouse stood stock-still. Then through a break in the dark veil of the skies the moon flashed her bull’s-eye upon him and he stood revealed—just as Terence had discovered him making his exit from the cupboard.

There came a loud, delighted bellow from the nearest group and it was too late for escape. Rouse darted frantically to a flank, but he was held by a high wall and he turned and waited for them helplessly. From every possible direction his beloved followers bore down. They closed in and would not be denied. There came a scuffle in the dark, then he was lifted up and at last he could be seen in his rightful place, perched upon the shoulders of those nearest to him and clutching a tuft of hair in each hand for support.

A stately concourse formed up on either side and slowly surged forward, taking new shape as they ranged themselves formally outside the stained-glass windows and broke into song.

They had hoped that the Head would presently appear. No sound that he could even hear their chanting of allegiance was forthcoming.

Finally it occurred to them that he might not be there and the next best thing was clearly a grand procession round the school.

The bearers turned unsteadily about and moved away.

As they went, to the crashing music of the Harley song, watching them go stood Terence, still where Rouse had left him, with a smile of satisfaction about his lips.

There also watched the new Headmaster, who, unknown to any, had been peering crossly at them with one straining eye through a chink in the heavy curtains.