“He’s got a club-foot, sir.”

“Oh, I see.”

Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and he was suddenly embarrassed.  His instinct was to beg the boy’s pardon, but he was too shy to do so.  He made his voice gruff and loud.

“Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for?  Get on with you.”

Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in groups of two or three.

“You’d better come along with me, Carey,” said the master “You don’t know the way, do you?”

Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.

“I can’t go very fast, sir.”

“Then I’ll go very slow,” said the master, with a smile.

Philip’s heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said a gentle word to him.  He suddenly felt less unhappy.

But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip’s.

“I say, let’s look at your foot,” he said.

“No,” answered Philip.

He jumped into bed quickly.

“Don’t say no to me,” said Singer.  “Come on, Mason.”

The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words he slipped in.  They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried.

Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip’s hands clenched on the blanket.  Philip cried out.

“Why don’t you show us your foot quietly?”

“I won’t.”

In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm.  He began to turn it.

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” said Philip.  “You’ll break my arm.”

“Stop still then and put out your foot.”

Philip gave a sob and a gasp.  The boy gave the arm another wrench.  The pain was unendurable.

“All right.  I’ll do it,” said Philip.

He put out his foot.  Singer still kept his hand on Philip’s wrist.  He looked curiously at the deformity.

“Isn’t it beastly?” said Mason.

Another came in and looked too.

“Ugh,” he said, in disgust.

“My word, it is rum,” said Singer, making a face.  “Is it hard?”

He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it were something that had a life of its own.  Suddenly they heard Mr. Watson’s heavy tread on the stairs.  They threw the clothes back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles.  Mr. Watson came into the dormitory.  Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles.  The little boys were safely in bed.  He put out the light and went out.

Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer.  He had got his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible.  He was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord.