Fenn caught his eye, and smiled painfully. Then he turned and went into the house.
Mr. Kay’s zeal for reform was apparently still unsatisfied. He directed his batteries towards Kennedy.
“Go to your house at once, Kennedy. You have no business out here at this time.”
This, thought Kennedy, was getting a bit too warm. Mr. Kay might do as he pleased with his own house, but he was hanged if he was going to trample on him.
“Mr. Blackburn is my housemaster, sir,” he said with great respect.
Mr. Kay stared.
“My housemaster,” continued Kennedy with gusto, slightly emphasising the first word, “knows that I always go out just before lockup, and he has no objection.”
And, to emphasise this point, he walked towards the school buildings again. For a moment it seemed as if Mr. Kay intended to call him back, but he thought better of it. Mr. Blackburn, in normal circumstances a pacific man, had one touchy point—his house. He resented any interference with its management, and was in the habit of saying so. Mr. Kay remembered one painful scene in the Masters’ Common Room, when he had ventured to let fall a few well-meant hints as to how a house should be ruled. Really, he had thought Blackburn would have choked. Better, perhaps, to leave him to look after his own affairs.
So Mr. Kay followed Fenn indoors, and Kennedy, having watched him vanish, made his way to Blackburn’s.
Quietly as Fenn had taken the incident at the gate, it nevertheless rankled. He read prayers that night in a distinctly unprayerful mood. It seemed to him that it would be lucky if he could get through to the end of the term before Mr. Kay applied that last straw which does not break the backs of camels only. Eight weeks’ holiday, with plenty of cricket, would brace him up for another term. And he had been invited to play for the county against Middlesex four days after the holidays began. That should have been a soothing thought. But it really seemed to make matters worse. It was hard that a man who on Monday would be bowling against Warner and Beldam, or standing up to Trott and Hearne, should on the preceding Tuesday be sent indoors like a naughty child by a man who stood five-feet-one in his boots, and was devoid of any sort of merit whatever.
It seemed to him that it would help him to sleep peacefully that night if he worked off a little of his just indignation upon somebody. There was a noise going on in the fags’ room. There always was at Kay’s. It was not a particularly noisy noise—considering; but it had better be stopped. Badly as Kay had treated him, he remembered that he was head of the house, and as such it behoved him to keep order in the house.
He went downstairs, and, on arriving on the scene of action, found that the fags were engaged upon spirited festivities, partly in honour of the near approach of the summer holidays, partly because—miracles barred—the house was going on the morrow to lift the cricket-cup. There were a good many books flying about, and not a few slippers. There was a confused mass rolling in combat on the floor, and the table was occupied by a scarlet-faced individual, who passed the time by kicking violently at certain hands, which were endeavouring to drag him from his post, and shrieking frenzied abuse at the owners of the said hands. It was an animated scene, and to a deaf man might have been most enjoyable.
Fenn’s appearance was the signal for a temporary suspension of hostilities.
“What the dickens is all this row about?” he inquired.
No one seemed ready at the moment with a concise explanation. There was an awkward silence. One or two of the weaker spirits even went so far as to sit down and begin to read. All would have been well but for a bright idea which struck some undiscovered youth at the back of the room.
“Three cheers for Fenn!” observed this genial spirit, in no uncertain voice.
The idea caught on. It was just what was wanted to give a finish to the evening’s festivities. Fenn had done well by the house. He had scored four centuries and an eighty, and was going to knock off the runs against Blackburn’s tomorrow off his own bat. Also, he had taken eighteen wickets in the final house-match. Obviously Fenn was a person deserving of all encouragement. It would be a pity to let him think that his effort had passed unnoticed by the fags’ room. Happy thought! Three cheers and one more, and then “He’s a jolly good fellow,” to wind up with.
It was while those familiar words, “It’s a way we have in the public scho-o-o-o-l-s,” were echoing through the room in various keys, that a small and energetic form brushed past Fenn as he stood in the doorway, vainly trying to stop the fags’ choral efforts.
It was Mr. Kay.
The singing ceased gradually, very gradually. It was some time before Mr. Kay could make himself heard. But after a couple of minutes there was a lull, and the housemaster’s address began to be audible.
“… unendurable noise. What is the meaning of it? I will not have it. Do you hear? It is disgraceful. Every boy in this room will write me two hundred lines by tomorrow evening. It is abominable, Fenn.” He wheeled round towards the head of the house. “Fenn, I am surprised at you standing here and allowing such a disgraceful disturbance to go on. Really, if you cannot keep order better—It is disgraceful, disgraceful.”
Mr. Kay shot out of the room. Fenn followed in his wake, and the procession made its way to the housemasters’ study. It had been a near thing, but the last straw had arrived before the holidays.
Mr. Kay wheeled round as he reached his study door.
“Well, Fenn?”
Fenn said nothing.
“Have you anything you wish to say, Fenn?”
“I thought you might have something to say
