Alone upon the wide deserted expanse of the playing fields at Harley there stood, a picture of misery, the only fellow in the school who had not dared to go to Rainhurst. There were, it is true, somewhere in the school, other boys, but they had mostly remained behind under compulsion. Some were in detention and some in the infirmary. A round dozen or so were of a type who never did watch football even when it was taking place under their noses, and they had played no part in that clandestine excursion simply because it had had no attraction for them. But there was only this one boy who had been afraid to go.

It was Christopher Woolf Roe. He was by no means happy, and he was obsessed with a melancholy interest as to what his father would have to say when he knew what the school had done. He gazed out mournfully over the forsaken football ground. No sound of any boyish voice reached his ear. It might have been holiday time. So when a step sounded unexpectedly behind him on the gravel path he turned in surprise. The school porter was crossing from the neighbourhood of the Head’s room, and something in his manner suggested that he was conveying a message. Roe, starving for company, looked at him as a pig looks at some farm hand carrying a pan of swill.

“Do you want me?” he asked hopefully enough.

The porter answered with dignity. As a man of discrimination he had been on the school’s side throughout this strife, and he was not disposed to make conversation with one whom he considered something of a traitor.

“The Headmaster wishes to speak to you, sir,” said he, and withdrew.

Without a word Roe moved away dejectedly towards the stained-glass windows of his father’s room, and passed through the old oak door beside the steps. He had not even the heart to whistle as he went.

He knocked at the door and was greeted by ominous silence. He went in. The Head was standing by the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece, and by every line of his face Roe could see that he was going to address him not as a father but as the Headmaster of a Public School. He moved silently across the carpet.

“Did you want me, sir?” said he respectfully.

He placed one hand in the other and rubbed them gently together.

The Head looked at him grimly. Half-an-hour ago he had stood at his window looking out upon his kingdom. It had struck him quite suddenly that the neighbourhood of the school was strangely quiet. He had leaned out a little farther. He could still see nobody about. Finally he had craned his neck to its limit and turned his head all ways. There was no doubt about it. The school was deserted. He had never seen the place so quiet on a Saturday. The seats under the trees were all unoccupied. No sound came from the fives courts. No figure could be discerned on any pathway. The only houses that he could see looked uninhabited. Sudden perplexity had settled upon him. He had furrowed his brows.... Next he had left his room and had gone into the school and along the corridors to places from which he could see the playing fields from every angle. He peered into the common rooms, inspected the library.... His suspicions became a certainty. There was something wrong. He went back to his own room, and all the way along the corridor the tap of his footfall produced a hollow, echoing ring that spoke of utter emptiness.

From his own window he took one final peep on to the football ground. There at last he had seen a solitary youth, Harley’s Cinderella, walking with downcast mien aimlessly across his front. It was his son.

In the five minutes that had elapsed since that moment he had endeavoured to reason things out, but it had been like groping one’s way in the dark through some strange underworld. He was utterly bewildered, and he was conscious of fast-growing anger. He eyed his son for a little while petulantly, and at last he spoke.

“There is nobody anywhere about the school,” said he indignantly. “The place is deserted. Can you offer any explanation?”

Roe did not hesitate. He was, in point of fact, glad to get it off his chest. Besides the news was sensational and there is always a certain gratification in breaking news of a kind that makes a man jump out of his slippers.

He spoke incisively.

“Yes,” said he, “I think I can tell you what’s happened. The First Fifteen have gone to Rainhurst to play the match of the season, and every fellow in the school who could has gone over to see the game.”

The effect of this news exceeded all expectation.

For one moment his father merely looked dazed. But as he began to recover Roe slowly backed towards the wall. Then he found himself staring helplessly towards his father’s table, absolutely fascinated by the fixed glare of his wide eyes shining with concentrated anger from behind their spectacles, just as a rabbit is frozen still by the cold eyes of a snake. His father did not speak. He just subsided slowly into his chair and his eyes never left his son’s unhappy countenance. He was looking him through and through, and Roe could see that he was at the same time turning it all over in his mind and looking at this outburst by a fettered school from every possible angle. Nothing was going to escape consideration. The probability was that he was no more vexed at the open lawlessness of such a match than at the astounding fact that the officially appointed captain of football at the school had been left out of the team by those who had selected it. He was very clearly taken aback.

At last his lips jerked open and he spoke, but no muscle of his body moved, and his eyes never for one instant shifted from their close examination of his son. His voice was ominously hard and dry. He said:

“If you knew that this was going to happen why did you not mention it in time for me to stop it?”

Roe moved a pace nearer to the wall.

“Coles said——” he began.

“Coles?” snapped the Head. “What part has he in this? Has he gone with the team? Is Coles playing for the school?”

Roe tried to steady himself before he spoke. He answered after a moment’s pause:

“He’s playing. But he had a reason. He thought that if he refused suspicion would settle upon him and spoil our chance of doing any good later on. There was another thing too. He had made a plan.”

“What plan?” The Head stood up. “Coles seems to imagine,” he exclaimed, “that I wish him to come to my support with underhand plots. I require no such help whatever. His suggestions of late have been an open insult to the power of my authority. You will tell Coles that whatever I require of him will be obtained by exacting his obedience to my instructions and not by lending my ear to subterfuges. Coles utterly misconceives his position. You will tell him that I am exceedingly angry to find that to advance some plot of his own he agreed to disobey my orders.”

Roe shivered miserably.

“And you,” declared his father, “what have you done to stop this open defiance of my instructions? You are captain of football here, and as my own son you came to this school with a ready-made reputation. You could, by strong action, have swayed the school to my support within a fortnight. Instead you have been crassly inactive. This match has taken place under your very nose and you have not so much as lifted a finger to prevent it. We are well into the second half of term, and instead of showing determination in tackling the state of affairs you are content to be made ridiculous by a youngster whose sole qualification to captaincy is his popularity. I am amazed.”

Roe moved a step farther back.

“I thought——” he began.

“Be silent,” commanded the Head. “Listen to me. Immediately Rouse returns you will tell him to come to my room without a moment’s delay——”

Roe interrupted.

“It’s no use sending for Rouse,” said he. “Everybody who’s playing has sworn to take a share of the blame.”

The Head stared at him. Roe proceeded to explain, but the Head was impatient.

“I shall see Rouse,” he repeated. “And you, as captain of football, will make it your business to give him those instructions personally. There is another thing. Mr Nicholson has gone up to London for the day. I understand he is returning by car very late to-night. Instruct the porter to send to his rooms and leave word that I require to see him here to-morrow morning immediately before chapel. You yourself will remain about the school until Rouse returns. Whatever time it may be you will see that he comes here forthwith. If I am not here he will wait until I return. You clearly understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roe, in a melancholy whisper.

The Head pointed towards the door, turned in his chair and picked up a paper with hands that were trembling with suppressed wrath. Roe closed the door gently behind him.

As soon as he had gone the Head threw his paper on to the floor and stood up. He moved to the window and stood there a moment looking out upon the school’s strange solitude. It was tea-time. By now the match must be nearly over. Within a few hours those who had broken his strict command would be returning and going to their respective houses.

He had until then to make up his mind as to the penalty that must be paid. Rouse had challenged his son’s authority, and his son had proved hopelessly unable to compete with him. Sudden keen disappointment came into the Head’s heart. He felt extraordinarily alone. There was no single being in the whole school who was upon his side. He had sent for his son in the belief that his son stood out amongst ordinary boys as he stood out amongst ordinary headmasters. His son had failed. He had nobody now to depend upon. He stood entirely alone. But the school had challenged him and he must find an answer.