There were twelve of them, and every man was a blood.  They had reached a solemn age and, in the dignity of their bloodhood, were quite unaware that they were playing at a mock-trial and enjoying it.  I’m sure none of them would have missed it.  Were Stanley alive now, instead of lying beneath the sea off Gallipoli, he would be twenty-seven years of age, very junior in his profession, and therefore much younger than when he was a house-captain of nineteen:  and he would admit that on this famous occasion he and his fellow-prefects were highly pleased with the transaction entrusted to them.  For at twenty-seven we are people who have been old and now are young again.

His team sat down two sides of a long table, and himself was enthroned at the top in front of foolscap and blotting-paper.  It was a splendid tribunal.

I tried to persuade myself that I was perfectly comfortable, and could, if need be, show my easy conscience by a little old-time impudence.  In reality my heart was fluttering, and a perspiration had broken out upon my head and the palms of my hands.  My brows I wiped on my sleeve, and my hands I rubbed on the seat of my trousers.  Nor had I lost the headache which asserted itself directly my long imposition was done.  My forehead felt as if it had swollen and extended the skin across it like elastic.  And for the last twelve hours my face had been warm and burning.

“Now, Rupert Ray,” said Stanley, “we want you to own up to this blooming business of last night.  So fire away.”

“I don’t know what you’re gassing about,” said I.

“Now don’t be sulky.  You’ll only make matters worse by trying to bluff us.  And goodness knows they’re bad enough as it is.”

“Oh, to think how we’ve been disappointed in you!” interposed Bickerton, who had taken up a position on the fender.  “To think how we’ve cherished this viper in our bosom!” And he raised his hands in mock despair.

“Now don’t be an ass, Bicky,” said Stanley, who deemed that a Court of Inquiry over which he presided was much too weighty an affair to be approached with levity; “it’s no joking matter.  The kid’s in a beastly mess, and, when he owns up, we must try to get him off as lightly as possible.  I think perhaps we’ve let this youth and his chum, the Gray Doe, get too cheeky, and to that extent we’re to blame....  Now, Ray, answer me some questions.  Did you get a thousand lines from our revered housemaster, Carpet—­Mr. Fillet?”

“Yes.”

“When did you complete them?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“In short, on the afternoon immediately preceding the tragedy which took place in the microscopic hours of this morning?”

“Yes, I s’pose so.”

“That’s a remarkable coincidence, isn’t it?”

“I’m bothered if I see why.”

“My dear child, you really mustn’t be ‘bothered’ in here.  It’s gross disrespect to my brother-prefects—­my colleagues.  Besides, you knew perfectly well that in the stilly night a malicious attempt was made upon—­not upon the life—­but upon the cane of Mr. Fillet, which is, after all, the life and soul of the little man.”