“My time is valuable,” hinted Penny.  “Still, by all means let us be spotless....  That’s right.  Now you look ripping.  Come along, and I’ll stand you a drink when it’s over.”

For Penny, the callous opportunist, had a sort of patronising tenderness for his two acolytes.

Doe followed his conductor in a silence which not only saved him from betraying timidity by a trembling voice, but also suited the dignity of a French Aristocrat.  But no—­at this point, I think, he was a Christian martyr walking to the lions.

“Come, my lamb, to the slaughter-house,” said Penny, in the best of spirits, “and don’t try that looking-defiant game, ’cos it won’t pay.  They’re not taking any to-day, thank you.  That’s their tone....  There’s the door.  Now remember not to say a word on your own behalf, for with these bally prefects anything that you say will be taken down in evidence against you....  Enter the prisoner, gentlemen.  Sorry to be so long, but we had to make ourselves presentable.  Anything else in the same line to-day?”

Penny paused for breath, but showed no desire to leave the Prefects’ Room.  He wanted to see at least the commencement of judicial proceedings.  They looked so promising.  All the Bramhall prefects were there—­Bickerton, Kepple-Goddard, and the prosecuting counsel, Banana-Skin; and Stanley—­Stanley by the grace of God.

“Bring the boy Doe in,” ordered Stanley, “and kick that gas-bag Pennybet out.  If he were a year younger we’d whack him too.”

No one thought himself specifically addressed, and Penny was left in possession of the floor.  But Stanley’s curt treatment rankled in his heart.  So, placing his feet wide apart and his hands in his waistcoat pockets, he respectfully drew attention to the opprobrious epithet “gas-bag” which had been employed in requesting him to retire from this Chamber of Horrors, and asked that the offensive remark might be withdrawn.

Stanley scorned communication with an impertinent junior.  He telegraphed a glance to Bickerton.

“Turf him out, Bicky.”

But Penny, perceiving that rough treatment would ensue, gracefully removed himself from the room, so timing his motions that he closed the door from outside just as Bickerton from within arrived at the handle.  Bickerton, defeated, swung round upon the assembly and asked if he should follow the fugitive.

“That kid’s too smart to live,” said Stanley, more generous than his peers.  “Let him be.  He’d best you and a good many more of us.  Besides, it’s nearly tea-time, and we’ve got to get this Doe business over.”

Bickerton accordingly took up his place on the fender and considered himself empanelled upon the jury.  Doe stood with his hands behind his back, his cheeks very flushed, and his knees slightly shivering, but upheld by the thought of his resemblance to Charles I. He would scorn to plead before this unjust tribunal.