They were like days of drought. Wherever one moved about the school one noticed everywhere the same set look on every fellow’s face of patient resolution. There was very little ragging. Harley had become a kind of expanded orphan school. They took their exercise in crocodile formation, moving shamefacedly two by two. The only permitted recreation was the reading of heavy books. No boy so much as dared to kick a fives ball before him along the gravel path. Few had the heart to whistle. To those who were onlookers of it all—the masters, school servants, neighbouring inhabitants—this had never been expected. So soon as the news had sped its rounds that Toby was leaving, and that all games were to cease, those who were wisest shook their heads and foretold whole-hearted revolution. Some vividly imagined the Head being captured by boys and ducked. Others anticipated open refusal to do any work whatever in school hours. Yet Harley took them by surprise. They went like lambs, and this was because they had a memory to give them heart.

It was the day that Toby had left. He had caught an early train. With barely half-a-dozen exceptions the whole school had turned out to say good-bye. It had been like a ceremonial parade on Founder’s Day. Toby had shaken hands with every fellow he could reach. He had said nothing at all. He had just shaken hands. And the fellows had understood. They had started to sing: “He’s a jolly good fellow.” Rouse had stopped them. He had got up on to a pile of boxes at the station and addressed them with some hesitation and an uncertain voice, and he had explained things to them.

“We’ve got to stick it out.” Those had been his words. Toby had foreseen this possibility and he had sent that message. “Hang on till he can bring up reinforcements from outside. Do nothing that may make it harder for you to wait. Get nobody expelled. Wait. Things will come out all right if you only show your grit. All you’ve got to do is to stick it out.”

They had understood.

Toby was leaving then, not for good, but merely as their messenger to every other old Harleyan who still loved the school, and every parent, and he would fetch help. They need write no whining letters home. Toby would know how to do it. There would be no unpleasant scandal, no trouble with the Press. Toby had the honour of the school at heart. He would know how to do it. Sooner or later the Head would find that out. Then it would be their day. Till then their duty lay in knowing how to wait. Every day that passed and left them idle and bored to tears would, nevertheless, be a day upon which Toby would without doubt have gone another step on the road of retribution.

Whether he could call up the outside forces in time to avail during the present term could not be guessed. But he would be working for them. That would be enough. This was the memory that those who looked on in wonder at the school’s forbearance did not understand. It was Harley’s secret.

So the days passed.

The Head, for his part, found them pleasant days. He knew at last the wonder of his power. His strength had triumphed. He had the reputation of never doing the expected. His answer to their challenge had taken the wind completely from their sails and left them open-mouthed with awe. They were spellbound with his invincible strength of purpose. They realised at last that they had met their master. Slowly but surely he was making them bow before him. They had counted upon him making Rouse the scapegoat and they had prepared to defeat him. Instead he had defeated them. The feeling was delightful. He went his way with a shrewdly grim expression befitting a man of such resolution, but at heart he was laughing in delight. He began to overlook the disappointment he had experienced in his son. Perhaps his son was not to blame. After all, one of his stamp in one family was all that folk could reasonably expect. He looked round and about him each day and saw boys wriggling under his iron rule. He did not wonder why they did not defy him. He was content to know that they were learning a lesson they would never forget as long as they lived, and he gloried in prolonging it. Once he reminded them that their punishment could not be lightened in any way until Rouse came to him to say that the school would bow to his ruling and would recognise his son. They just ignored him.

So days passed.

Soon Toby had been gone a fortnight. No news came. Terence had had letters but they conveyed only one exhortation. They gave no such message as the whole school longed so feverishly to hear.

And then at last, when the utter weariness of life had grown almost more than they could bear, and some had begun to doubt if Toby could really do anything for them, something happened. Terence was sitting with Rouse in his study one evening when there sounded upon the door a sharp, peremptory knock. Then the door swung on its hinges and there entered one who held himself strangely erect, whose chin was so proudly uplifted that he seemed a living example of the proud and patient spirit that was keeping Harley solid during this the last round of the long fight. His glasses had slipped a little over the bridge of his nose, and when he stopped and brought his gaze to bear upon them each in turn he looked at them quaintly over the rims. At last his bearing relaxed. Safely inside the room with the closed door behind him he became suddenly a human boy, and it was clear that he was somewhat unsettled. It made him rather more likeable.

“I want to tell you something,” he began. “P’r’aps I ought to have come before, but I’ve been waiting to make sure.”

“What is it, Henry?” said Rouse.

Henry cast a deprecating eye at his clothes and, following his gaze, Rouse perceived that they were smeared with dirt. He held out his hands and revealed their blackened palms.

“I’ve been climbing up another drain-pipe.”

“How many is that you’ve climbed up now?” asked Rouse. “What is your average for the season?”

Henry ignored him.

“There’s a drain-pipe at Seymour’s,” said he, “that takes you on to a ledge, and you can walk along the ledge and look into Coles’ study.”

“What did you want to look into Coles’ study for?”

“I didn’t look in,” said Henry. “I listened.”

He paused. Rouse was looking at him dubiously. Terence had moved from his chair and was leaning over the table.

“Why couldn’t you listen at the door, then?”

Henry looked at him scornfully. It seemed almost superfluous to explain that in the cinematograph world nobody listens at a door if they can climb up a pipe and listen at a window. He heaved a sigh.

“Something has happened,” he said. “Until now no single fellow in the school has let us down. If the Head’s been looking for a chance to put the screw on a bit, he’s been disappointed. No one’s been caught out after the hours he laid down. No one has broken bounds. No one’s played games. The chaps have hung together. But to-night I came across Bobbie Carr creeping out of school just before seven o’clock.”

“Well,” said Rouse, “what did you do?”

“I stopped him and asked him where he was going, and he wouldn’t say. I jawed him a bit and told him that no matter what he was going for he wasn’t playing the game. I said he was bound to be caught, and he’d be the first one who’d let us down.”

“Did he turn back?”

“No,” said Henry soberly. “He shook me off and went on.”

“And where do you think he’s gone?”

For a moment Henry hesitated. Then he spoke up boldly.

“Seeing how much I know,” said he, “I hadn’t got any doubt. It was my idea that Coles was sending him down to the town to get something to drink.”

The captain of cricket and the captain of football looked at one another gravely and finally looked at Henry.

“And so,” continued Henry, looking at them modestly over the tops of his glasses, “I decided to get additional information, and I climbed up the drain-pipe and listened at Coles’ window.”

“Well?” said Terence.

“There isn’t any doubt about it at all. Coles was in there with some of his pals and they’re drinking. Young Carr’s been sent for another bottle.” There was a brief silence. “That’s isn’t quite all,” said Henry presently. “I went back to the little gates and waited for Carr to come back. I meant to take the stuff away from him and bring it to you. But—he’s never come back. I’ve waited an hour and a half. One of two things has happened. Either he’s broken the bottle and gone back for another, or else after what I told him he’s afraid to come back. Perhaps he’s run away.” Henry concluded on a low note. He was clearly distressed. “Any day now,” said he, “Mr Nicholson might make something happen. The chaps have hung together all this time and given the Head no loophole. Now this will be found out.”

It was Terence who answered first. He turned to Rouse.

“You’ve tackled Coles once,” said he. “It’s my turn. I might have better luck. I’ll go to his study and make him say where Carr’s gone.”

Rouse shook his head.

“No, it would be no use. If he’s at all tight he’d only make an unholy shindy. That’d be worse than anything. I’ll go out. I’ll see if I can’t find young Carr somewhere or other between here and the town and bring him in.”

“Why should you go?” demanded Terence. “Supposing you get caught yourself? The Head isn’t going to give you a second chance, you know. It’s asking for trouble.”

“I’ll have to go,” said Rouse, “because all the trouble is my fault. I’ve brought enough on the school to justify me in trying to save them something. There’s another thing. This is the footer season, and according to you I’m captain of footer. This is my job.” He smiled disarmingly. “You can help too,” he added. “Go over to Seymour’s and find Saville. Tell him what’s up, and see if he can’t get Carr reported present until I can get him in.” He stood up. “There’s no time to waste. It’s nearly nine now, and if Henry’s idea is right every minute’s of value. Even if he’s back by now we may be able to stop him taking the stuff to Coles. I’m going out. You get across and find Saville.”

He moved to the door.

“Aren’t you taking a coat,” said Terence, “or a hat? It’s precious cold.”

“I’ll go as I am. At this time of night it’s less conspicuous. And I can get out by the pavilion—the way you and I used to go when we were kids.”

He waited one moment, as if wondering if he had forgotten anything, then he opened the door and went out.

Terence turned to Henry and looked at him in queer anxiety.

“You oughtn’t to have told him,” he said. “You ought to have told me alone. You might have known he’d want to go out. He’s nearly worried to death. He feels it’s his personal responsibility to Toby to make the chaps hang together and stick it out till he can do something for us. It’s getting on his nerves. All day long he’s moving amongst the chaps telling them to keep their pecker up. He can hardly keep still. In the face of news like this he was certain to go out and try to find the shocking little ass.”

Henry looked a trifle crestfallen.

“I thought he ought to be told,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I know,” retorted Terence. “But supposing he gets caught himself? Supposing he’s seen?”

Henry made a comforting grimace.

“If I know Rouse as well as I think I do,” said he, “he isn’t the sort of guy to go and get caught.”

Terence slapped one hand into the other distressfully.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s just the sort of guy he is. He’s never made a plan since I knew him that ever went right.”

The Headmaster of Harley sat at his table, his elbows resting upon the handsome blotting-pad that graced it, and in his hands he held, with a curious, unnatural stiffness, a letter. His head was bowed a little, and his attitude was so very still that one who came unawares upon him sitting there might almost have thought that he had fallen asleep; but presently he moved his head and looked up and around him with a quick movement of uncertainty, as if the silence of that vast room were oppressing him. And if one might then have seen his face and noticed the setting of the deep lines upon it, one would have known the truth. Hard Roe was beaten.

The pages of history are crowded with the names of men whose rise to eminence was aided by daily self-aggrandisement, but there is no record of any one amongst them all whose besetting weakness did not sooner or later compass his fall.

If Hard Roe had ever properly understood this truth he had forgotten it long before it would have been of most use to him to remember it. For some few minutes he merely read the letter through and through, and at last, when he knew the words by heart, he found himself wondering whose influence lay behind it. He did not know the Governors of Harley well enough to understand how much they were likely to know of things at the school, and it never occurred to him at all that a man of Toby Nicholson’s stamp could have any means of influence at their councils. He was unaware how many parents might have lodged complaint against his ruling, or what influential Old Harleyans had sided against him. These were wheels within wheels which he could not understand. Now he was to leave. His term of government ended with the coming of the holidays. There was nothing in the letter that could properly offend. One might almost have thought that the regrets which it expressed were real. But there was nevertheless a coldness in its phrasing which succeeded tolerably well in conveying a stern rebuke. That he understood.

He braced his shoulders.

His mouth took on again a natural grimness.

He looked round the room over his spectacles with little jerky movements of the head, seeing no single thing save pictures in his mind’s eye portraying that phase of the future which was of the first importance to his personal pride.

In ten days term would be over. The probability was that the school would never know this sequel to the long fight until he had really gone. Rumours that he was not to stay might reach them during the holidays, but not until they reassembled for the Easter term and found that they had really triumphed would they be sure. His imagination presented him with a mental vision of how things would be then, and in the forefront of the picture he saw the boy who throughout the term had fought him, gloating over his fall. The flood-tide of Rouse’s popularity would carry him in wild idolatry to the top of the school. And Rouse would ascend, laughing bombastically at the memory of the master who had challenged his hold over the school and who had been defeated. He slowly shook his head in grave unhappiness. Always there had been strong in him a deep desire to make a reputation and to hold it throughout his life. He would like, after he had gone, that all honest fellows in the school should say of him that he delighted in every crisis to stand alone, that he had always taken them by surprise, that he had never done what they had counted upon him doing.

Now he was defeated. The school would say of him instead that all his life he had done wrong and that he had never been exposed till now. The bubble that would be pricked would not be Rouse’s but his own. He suddenly stood up. To be relieved of his post was not so terrible a blow as was the certain knowledge that he would be remembered by the school only as one who had been a three months’ wonder and who had failed. That was more than he could bear. He looked round the room in sudden petulance, and thought it stiff and unresponsive. The sober pictures and the heavy curtains were glaring at him stupidly. He moved hesitantly towards the door as if to escape from this environment. He wandered into the passage, came to the old oak door and swung it upon its hinges. The night air came round the corner, cooling his forehead with the touch of an old friend. He knew then what he needed... the friendly solitude of the night. For perhaps the last time he would roam his provinces alone, fighting the black depression that was slowly weighing him down.

He came out on to the gravel path and looked up at Harley. Here and there lighted windows, out of true keeping with the school’s proud majesty, were winking at him as if in teasing. He turned across the football ground. The night air did not seem very cold. Indeed it served him rather well by clearing his troubled mind. So he was moving with hands clasped under his gown, his square-built head sunken between his shoulders, when his attention was suddenly distracted by a footstep upon the pathway by the pavilion just in front of him. He stopped and looked ahead, his chief hope an anxious one that he would not himself be noticed wandering about so oddly on a winter’s night without his hat. Only for one moment was he uncertain as to the identity of the young man who was passing. Then clear recognition came to him. That young man was Rouse. Funnily enough, he too was going his way without hat or overcoat, and the Head stared in perplexity. Next he considered the time.

His definite order had declared that no boy should be out of school after seven o’clock. This was defiance. He moved along the grass in the stealthy manner of a domestic cat. Rouse, engrossed upon his mission, never even turned his head. At last he came to a narrow gate that led into the roadway, and here he made a moment’s pause before he boldly scrambled over and set off unhesitatingly towards the town.

The Head had stopped to watch with eyes that were fixed and wide, and now he stood rooted to the spot, still staring tensely in the direction Rouse had taken. It was as though a star of hope had suddenly shone through the darkness of the night. The curtain had risen upon a dramatic scene that should prove the climax of the play. For ten days more he would still be Headmaster of the school. They had not yet taken from him the power to expel, and Rouse had played into his hands. Here was a way to win.

That sense of crushing defeat lifted from his shoulders as if by magic. He turned. Decision had come to him. He began to step out towards the school houses. He would go to Morley’s and ask for Rouse. At this hour every boy in Harley should be in his study or in his cubicle. There could be no conceivable excuse for Rouse. The whole of Morley’s should know that the Headmaster had been to the house and had found him missing. His sense of dramatic effect bounced around his heart. The school should have little enough to laugh at in his own departure after all. His wish might yet come true. It should not be by the folly of his government but by the outstanding boldness of his last act that Harley should ever afterwards remember him. Before he left the school Rouse should be expelled.