‘You see,’ the Head drawled on, ’Winton’s only fault is a certain costive and unaccommodating virtue. So this comes very happily.’
‘I’ve never noticed any sign of it,’ said King. Winton was in King’s House, and though King as pro-consul might, and did, infernally oppress his own Province, once a black and yellow cap was in trouble at the hands of the Imperial authority King fought for him to the very last steps of Caesar’s throne.
’Well, you yourself admitted just now that a mouse was beneath the occasion,’ the Head answered.
‘It was.’ Mr. King did not love Mr. Lidgett. ’It should have been a rat. But—but—I hate to plead it—it’s the lad’s first offence.’
‘Could you have damned him more completely, King?’
‘Hm. What is the penalty?’ said King, in retreat, but keeping up a rear-guard action.
‘Only my usual few lines of Virgil to be shown up by tea-time.’
The Head’s eyes turned slightly to that end of the corridor where Mullins, Captain of the Games (’Pot,’ ‘old Pot,’ or ‘Potiphar’ Mullins), was pinning up the usual Wednesday notice—’Big, Middle, and Little Side Football—A to K, L to Z, 3 to 4.45 P.M.’
You cannot write out the Head’s usual few (which means five hundred) Latin lines and play football for one hour and three-quarters between the hours of 1.30 and 5 P.M. Winton had evidently no intention of trying to do so, for he hung about the corridor with a set face and an uneasy foot. Yet it was law in the school, compared with which that of the Medes and Persians was no more than a non-committal resolution, that any boy, outside the First Fifteen, who missed his football for any reason whatever, and had not a written excuse, duly signed by competent authority to explain his absence, would receive not less than three strokes with a ground-ash from the Captain of the Games, generally a youth between seventeen and eighteen years, rarely under eleven stone (’Pot’ was nearer thirteen), and always in hard condition.
King knew without inquiry that the Head had given Winton no such excuse.