Now and again words spoken in a hollow tone drifted through the night and reached Terence in snatches.

Occasionally he answered, but it was evident that one of those moods was upon Rouse in which he loved to maintain a rambling monologue, content to speak his changing thoughts or to register opinions as they came to him without requiring any answer at all.

Most of the boys had travelled by train, but many had returned as they had come, by trap or bicycle; some were walking, however, and it was for this latter reason that Rouse and Terence had elected to walk too.

“We shall lose half the fun,” Rouse had affirmed, “if we do this thing in too great comfort. Let’s have the satisfaction of knowing that, as some of the kids have had to walk, we’ve walked too. It’s only sporting.”

He was talking again now. Terence pricked his ears politely.

“It is not,” he was saying, “until you have wheeled one of these infernal machines for about twelve miles without getting a ride even down a bit of a hill that you properly understand why they are called push-bikes.”

Terence turned to look at him.

Rouse was plodding a little in rear. It was pouring with rain and his overcoat was soaked and shining; rain was even dripping from his very ears. Yet the night was cheerfully illumined by his smile. Terence, who had a handbag in one hand and the other in his pocket, nodded ahead.

“We’re nearly there. You see those lights? That’s Harley!”

He stepped out with new hope. One might have imagined that he had no care in all the world.

Rouse’s response came in a sober monotone:

“You are quite right. That one red light, shining all alone, is the end of the Headmaster’s cigar, I think. He will be waiting up for us with a tray of cold supper. May heaven reward his kindly nature.”

They walked on for another mile in contemplative silence. For a time Terence took a turn at wheeling the bicycle. At last the cottage from which they had borrowed it was reached, and it was gratefully returned with the price of a new back tyre.

Twenty minutes later they finally came to Harley’s gates. In the distance they could just distinguish a group of youngsters who had been walking ahead of them making their way stealthily across to Mainwright’s house.

They turned, and behind them they could hear the steady tread of another couple who had been plodding along behind change suddenly to a cautious softness.

Rouse looked round him quizzically. At last he returned his gaze to Terence. “Nick,” said he, “it would be well to rise on the toes.” Next moment he was leading the way with a mysterious and ghostly tread along the gravel path towards Morley’s. “It is the last lap,” said he. “I wonder if we are going to secure a cigar or nuts.”

Terence made no immediate reply. He was looking watchfully towards the Headmaster’s room. But the blinds were drawn and only a dim light could be seen within.

They moved across the open. The rain was still beating down relentlessly upon them. Little pools of water were spreading across the football ground. There was a melancholy mist about the distant houses. They were dog-tired. Whilst they went, their heads bowed a little to the downpour, Rouse spoke no further word, not, however, because he was wondering in his heart what was to be the outcome of that great game, but curiously enough because his mind was busily planning how he could manage to get another hot bath before he went to bed.

When, therefore, right outside Morley’s, a figure came suddenly towards them, Rouse looked up with a start. Then he stopped. It was impossible to mistake the build of that young man. It was Christopher Woolf Roe. Instinctively the captain of cricket and the captain of football drew near to one another and waited for him to speak. They had not long to wait. He stopped in front of them and looked at Rouse.

“The Headmaster would like to speak to you,” he said.

Rouse eyed him good-humouredly.

“Did the Headmaster give you a note?”

“No, he didn’t. He said you were to go to his room directly you came in and wait there till he came back.”

Rouse shook his head sadly.

“I wonder if he knows that in my present condition I shall leave a pool of water wherever I stand?” said he. “It seems such a pity to spoil his carpet, doesn’t it? Besides, I shall sneeze so. And sneezing always makes him cross.”

Roe looked him slowly up and down with his pig-like eyes.

“The fact is,” said he, with ill-concealed delight, “you’re in for it.”

“If you mean to imply,” said Rouse, “that the Head is getting up a raffle, let me say that you are mistaken. I shall not be in for it.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“All right,” said Roe at last. “I’ve told you, haven’t I?”

He moved haughtily away, his duty done. Rouse and Terence looked thoughtfully after him.

“I think I’ll go along,” said Rouse, in a low voice. “When he sees how wet I am he’ll cut it short.”

“I’ll come along too.”

Rouse laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. “No. Leave things alone for now. I’ll go and see what he’s got to say. There’ll be plenty of time for you afterwards. Go in and see if you can’t bag me a hot bath! And,” he added over his shoulder as he was moving off, “somewhere in my study there’s a tin of sardines. It would be a rather pleasing thought if you bust it open so that we can give them a decent burial on a slice of bread.”

Terence made no answer: he just stood hesitantly where Rouse had left him watching as he went to meet his doom.

And now the way across the sodden football ground seemed very long. Only now that he was alone, and going backward instead of forward, did Rouse thoroughly realise the ache that was in his legs. Each footstep became a dragging effort.

It suddenly struck him that this would never do. Roe would be watching him. Very likely the Head was peeping out from behind his curtains. He would look to them as if he were going guiltily to the scaffold. He assumed an extravagant jauntiness after that. On the gravel path he met the group of enthusiasts who had been walking behind him all the way from Rainhurst, and he stopped and curveted humorously before them, his overcoat shining like oilskin, raindrops flying like spray from his sleeves and trouser legs.

“The performing sea-lion,” said he. “My next will be Sir Henry Irving.” He suddenly whipped his bowler hat from his head, dented it with one blow of his clenched fist and pulled it far down over his ears. Then he stood before them with folded arms. “Fifty faces under one hat—Napoleon!” His hands flew to the battered bowler and twisted it round with wild movements. “Charlie Chaplin!” Again he bounded about. His hat received another violent buffet. He faced them again. “A Nun!” Then he pulled it to one side and declared “Father Christmas!” Finally he made one swift gesture and struck another pose. “The Head Man of Harley,” said he. “Hard Roe.”

So far as it could be, it was lifelike. The hat was perched well forward over his forehead and his mouth was drawn down into a scowl. One knee was bent a little and his hands were clasped behind imaginary coat-tails.

For perhaps two seconds he held the pose. Then a thunderous roar reached him from almost immediately above his head. It was the voice of the Head, and the noise shaped itself at last into the word: “Rouse!”

Rouse shot to his full height like a man electrocuted and looked up.

That which might very well have been the head of a bloodhound was silhouetted against the lighted background of an open window.

Rouse slowly punched his hat to its right shape and placed it tenderly upon his head. The window was shut with a resounding bang. He began to move along thoughtfully towards the old oak door, and long after he had passed out of sight beyond it there still stood huddled aside in the darkness his erstwhile audience in attitudes of absolute astonishment.

Alone for a moment, Rouse spent a brief period of time in an attitude of reverence striving to recover his proper dignity. Then he moved solemnly forward across the small space that separated him from the oak door wherein he was to learn his sentence. He knocked respectfully. At first he could hear no answer. But at last the silence was broken and a stern voice said to him: “Come in.”

He went in cheerfully. Except for one electric candlestick upon the writing-table, the room was in darkness, but the candle was so placed that it shone directly upon the Head’s lined countenance, and Rouse could see that it was very grimly set. He moved across the room and stood before the table in readiness to learn the worst. Their eyes met. Rouse did not give way. He looked at the Head, not impudently, but with evident self-reliance. And the Head looked at him.

“Where have you been, Rouse?”

For one moment Rouse was in doubt as to how much was known, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say: “Bird’s-nesting,” or: “I’ve been out into the country, sir, and I was a bit late back.” But something in the other’s expectant eyes warned him, and finally he answered simply enough: “It was the Rainhurst match, sir. And we’ve been to play it.”

The Head made no move. “You led me to believe that the whole of your fixtures for the season were cancelled.” He paused. “In this school—or indeed in any school—there must be one Head and one alone!”

It occurred to Rouse to murmur brightly the truism that two heads are better than one, but he remained discreetly silent.

“My orders were that, until the captain of football was properly recognised in this school, football was to cease. In addition, you have been out of bounds. I find that the whole school have been with you and there is no doubt that it was you who persuaded them to go. You have dared to challenge my authority. By posing as a martyr to my stern ruling you have earned such easy popularity that your vanity has grown into a foolish bubble. I think that when the school wakes up to-morrow to find what you have led them into that bubble will be pricked. You will be no longer a self-appointed hero; you will have very little to be proud about. No doubt you considered that by devising the expedition which you led this afternoon you were covering yourself with fame. It might have been so. But those who knew me at Wilton could tell you that it was a very idle hope if you thought that you could defeat me.” He paused. “Why did you do it?” he demanded, in sudden violent anger.

Rouse was about to answer, but the Head leaned forward across the table and pointed at him with a thick forefinger. It was clear that he required no answer.

“I can tell you why,” said he. “It was to gratify your self-conceit. In the face of my stringent order, you deliberately arranged a match in which you could pose as captain of the school team, purely to appease your injured vanity.”

He stopped suddenly. Rouse’s countenance had undergone a surprising change. There was no longer any expression at all to be discerned upon it. His face had become a mask. He was a little pale. The only signs that there was any life behind it lay in the brightness of his eyes and the occasional movement of his mouth.

A gentle glow of satisfaction spread over the Headmaster. His words had been meant to hurt and they had succeeded. He went on ruthlessly:

“You had no thought whatever for the school. It was nothing to you that junior boys were missing the whole of their football through your blind selfishness. To retire from your false position was more than your crass conceit would let you do. But to justify yourself in remaining a kind of figurehead in the school you arranged this match. No doubt you have considered the possibility of your expulsion. It may be that you think your safety lies in strength of numbers.... You will tell me that you are no more to blame than any other boy in the school. I believe others are ready to say the same. I am fully prepared to find you eagerly shirking the blame that any worthy captain would accept for the conduct of his team. You, who were eager enough to pose as captain, are quite unready to take responsibility. That you require the school to share with you. I have considered that fact very carefully this evening whilst I have sat here waiting for your return, and I have already said that when the excitement of this afternoon has passed, and the aftermath sets in, when the school looks round to-morrow for something freshly interesting to attract them, they will receive a shock. I shall be interested to notice how much you personally suffer from that shock. I do not intend to expel you. I intend to demonstrate to the school exactly what you have led them into, and your own punishment will lie in the slow realisation that will come to you of the great injury which you, in your vain bravado, have done to your school. From to-morrow games of every conceivable kind will cease. Hitherto the boys, robbed of football, have been able to glean some satisfaction from minor forms of sport. To-morrow all such opportunities will have vanished. By my orders the fives courts will be closed. The gymnasium will be locked up. I have written a note this evening to the school’s boxing professional to tell him that his services will not be required next term. Every kind of sports kit in the school will be impounded. Any boy seen in athletic attire will be placed in detention. In addition, the town will be placed out of bounds. School hours will be increased. The only recreation allowed will take the form of outdoor walks by forms under a form master.”

The Head suddenly sat back in his chair and made a gesture of final triumph.

“You have sinned,” said he, “but it is the school that will do penance.”

Rouse had never so much as moved a muscle of his face. Just as he had foretold, the raindrops had trickled into a pool about his feet. Now at last his lips parted.

“Thank you for telling me your intentions, sir,” said he. “I shall know now what to do.”

The Head rose slowly to his feet.

“Your tone signifies that you still do not thoroughly understand the great punishment you have brought upon the school. That decides for me the one point upon which I was still uncertain. It is clear that there is no hope of an altered attitude on your part. Let me then add this. I have explained that all sports will cease and I have no intention of relaxing my decision. It follows that every coach at present here will be unemployed, and will therefore leave the school. Since there will be no games, and no coaches, there will be no necessity for a games master. Mr Nicholson will therefore go to another school. And it will be your fault that the school has lost him.” He paused. “Now that you understand the punishment that your bravado has brought upon those whom you essayed to lead,” said he, “you may go.”

There was a moment’s silence. Their eyes met.

Then Rouse turned and out of the room he went; slowly, stiffly, as one who walks in his sleep.