To him came Mr. Jephson, primed to bursting point with his grievance.
“Anything wrong, Jephson?” said Mr. Robertson.
“Wrong? I should just think there was. Did you happen to be looking at the match yesterday, Robertson?”
Mr. Robertson nodded.
“I always watch School matches. Good match. Norris missed a bad catch in the slips. He was asleep.”
Mr. Jephson conceded the point. It was trivial.
“Yes,” he said, “he should certainly have held it. But that’s a mere detail. I want to talk about Gethryn. Do you know what he did yesterday? I never heard of such a thing in my life, never. Went off during the luncheon interval without a word, and never appeared again till lockup. And now he refuses to offer any explanation whatever. I shall report the whole thing to Beckett. I told Gethryn so this morning.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Robertson; “I really think I shouldn’t. Beckett finds the ordinary duties of a Headmaster quite sufficient for his needs. This business is not in his province at all.”
“Not in his province? My dear sir, what is a headmaster for, if not to manage affairs of this sort?”
Mr. Robertson smiled in a sphinx-like manner, and answered, after the fashion of Socrates, with a question.
“Let me ask you two things, Jephson. You must proceed gingerly. Now, firstly, it is a headmaster’s business to punish any breach of school rules, is it not?”
“Well?”
“And school prefects do not attend roll-call, and have no restrictions placed upon them in the matter of bounds?”
“No. Well?”
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me what School rule Gethryn has broken?” said Mr. Robertson.
“You see you can’t,” he went on. “Of course you can’t. He has not broken any School rule. He is a prefect, and may do anything he likes with his spare time. He chooses to play cricket. Then he changes his mind and goes off to some unknown locality for some reason at present unexplained. It is all perfectly legal. Extremely quaint behaviour on his part, I admit, but thoroughly legal.”
“Then nothing can be done,” exclaimed Mr. Jephson blankly. “But it’s absurd. Something must be done. The thing can’t be left as it is. It’s preposterous!”
“I should imagine,” said Mr. Robertson, “from what small knowledge I possess of the Human Boy, that matters will be made decidedly unpleasant for the criminal.”
“Well, I know one thing; he won’t play for the team again.”
“There is something very refreshing about your logic, Jephson. Because a boy does not play in one match, you will not let him play in any of the others, though you admit his absence weakens the team. However, I suppose that is unavoidable. Mind you, I think it is a pity. Of course Gethryn has some explanation, if he would only favour us with it. Personally I think rather highly of Gethryn. So does poor old Leicester. He is the only Head-prefect Leicester has had for the last half-dozen years who knows even the rudiments of his business. But it’s no use my preaching his virtues to you. You wouldn’t listen. Take another cigar, and let’s talk about the weather.”
Mr. Jephson took the proffered weed, and the conversation, though it did not turn upon the suggested topic, ceased to have anything to do with Gethryn.
The general opinion of the School was dead against the Bishop. One or two of his friends still clung to a hope that explanations might come out, while there were also a few who always made a point of thinking differently from everybody else. Of this class was Pringle. On the Monday after the match he spent the best part of an hour of his valuable time reasoning on the subject with Lorimer. Lorimer’s vote went with the majority. Although he had fielded for the Bishop, he was not, of course, being merely a substitute, allowed to bowl, as the Bishop had had his innings, and it had been particularly galling to him to feel that he might have saved the match, if it had only been possible for him to have played a larger part.
“It’s no good jawing about it,” he said, “there isn’t a word to say for the man. He hasn’t a leg to stand on. Why, it would be bad enough in a House or form match even, but when it comes to first matches—!” Here words failed Lorimer.
“Not at all,” said Pringle, unmoved. “There are heaps of reasons, jolly good reasons, why he might have gone away.”
“Such as?” said Lorimer.
“Well, he might have been called away by a telegram, for instance.”
“What rot! Why should he make such a mystery of it if that was all?”
“He’d have explained all right if somebody had asked him properly. You get a chap like Norris, who, when he loses his hair, has got just about as much tact as a rhinoceros, going and ballyragging the man, and no wonder he won’t say anything. I shouldn’t myself.”
“Well, go and talk to him decently, then. Let’s see you do it, and I’ll bet it won’t make a bit of difference. What the chap has done is to go and get himself mixed up in some shady business somewhere. That’s the only thing it can be.”
“Rot,” said Pringle, “the Bishop isn’t that sort of chap.”
“You can’t tell. I say,” he broke off suddenly, “have you done that poem yet?”
Pringle started. He had not so much as begun that promised epic.
“I—er—haven’t quite finished it yet. I’m thinking it out, you know. Getting a sort of general grip of the thing.”
“Oh. Well, I wish you’d buck up with it. It’s got to go in tomorrow week.”
“Tomorrow week. Tuesday the what? Twenty-second, isn’t it? Right. I’ll remember. Two days
