“Oh, indeed.  Then you shall write five hundred lines of Cicero.  You’ll play no games till they’re done.”

Five hundred Latin lines!  God!  I had nerved myself for physical punishment, but for nothing so dreadful as this.  This meant long days of confinement with hard, hard labour.  A great mass of tears rose from somewhere and came dangerously near the surface.  But I kept them down and tried to show, though there was a catch in my voice, that I was still unbroken.

“Yes, sir.  Anything further?”

“Yes indeed.”  Carpet Slippers sucked in his breath.  “A further hundred lines.  P-p-perhaps that’ll teach you that rebellion is expensive.”

I swallowed the tears.  “No, sir.  That won’t teach me.”

“So?  Well, let’s say yet another hundred.”

Mentally stunned and bleeding, but ready to do battle with the Day of Judgment itself, I retorted: 

“That won’t teach me either, sir.”

“Oh, indeed.  Then we’ll add another three hundred—­eh?—­making a thousand in all.”

And at that point I shamefully broke off the fight.  It wasn’t fair—­he had all the artillery.  I held back the tears, fast gathering in volume, and gave up the unequal contest.  One day my own guns would come.  Quite respectfully I said “Yes, sir,” and walked out.  The vanguard of that mighty array of tears had forced its way as far as my eyes, which felt suspiciously moist.  In fact, as I shut the door and found myself alone—­absolutely alone—­they nearly came forth in full cataract.  But I saved the situation by thinking hard of other things and whistling loudly.

I went to an open window in the corridor and, looking out, saw that the sun had just dispelled the rain.  The railings of Kensingtowe over the roadway were still burnished and glistening with wet, as were the leaves of shrubs and trees.  And the air that touched my cheek was all soft and sweet-smelling after rain.  Resting my elbows on the window-sill, I told myself that I hated Carpet Slippers; that I hated Doe and it was all his fault; that I wouldn’t do the lines—­I wouldn’t do them; that I didn’t care if I was expelled; Kensingtowe was a beastly school, and Bramhall was its filthiest house.

The sound of a step in the corridor behind me arrested my thoughts.  I leaned farther out of the window and muttered:  “Oh, I hope he won’t speak to me.  I hope he’ll pass by.  I hate him, whoever he is.  O God, make him pass by,” for I knew there was a moisture in my eyes.  I hurriedly held them wide open, that they might dry in the sun.

“Ray?” It was Radley’s voice, but I wilfully paid no attention.

In a second he had laid violent hands on me and swung me round, so that I was held facing him.

“What?  Crying, Ray?  That’s a luxury we men must deny ourselves.”

It seems, as I recall it, a fine sentence, but at that moment, when I wanted to be a wild ass among men, it was a lie.  The hot blood flooded my forehead.  “I’m not crying!” I snapped, keeping my face upturned, my eyes fixed on his, and my teeth firmly set, that he might see that he had lied.