A parent had complained that his son had been ill-treated, and all the house prefects were summoned into the head master's presence. The offenders were leaning nervously against the wall; their victim was enduring tortures of self-consciousness; the head master was fingering his pen, and the avenging father blocked up the entire fireplace. There was a dead silence. We were all hard put to it not to smile. The offenders looked so much smaller than the prey. At last proceedings were opened by the boy's parent. He followed the traditional line. He had been a boy. He knew what boys were. He knew the public school code of honour. He loathed sneaking. His boy had not sneaked. The confession had been dragged out of him. What he, the father, wanted, was not punishment, but the assurance that such a thing would not happen again. 'And now, John,' he concluded, 'show the head master that bruise upon your arm.' Very sheepishly the boy drew off his coat, rolled up his sleeve and revealed a bruise, certainly of extensive proportions.
'How did they do that?' asked the chief.
'By flicking him with wet towels, head master,' said the parent.
A simultaneous denial came from both offenders. 'We didn't make that bruise, sir.'
'But did you flick him?' asked the chief.
'Well, sir; yes.'
'Then how on earth can you tell that you did not make that bruise?'
There was a moment's silence, during which the smaller of the offenders surveyed the wound with an almost envious eye.
'It couldn't have been me, sir,' he said at last. 'I can't flick well enough to have done that.'
I hope I may be pardoned for retelling this story, which I have already told elsewhere. But it seems to me to interpret perfectly the attitude towards bullying that exists in most houses. No doubt there was a great deal of bullying fifty years ago. And people think that what was true of the Rugby of Tom Brown's Schooldays is true of the Shrewsbury of to-day. They still think that the three chief sins of a Public School are bullying, stealing, and midnight escapades into the town. But those days have passed. In Desmond Coke's The Bending of a Twig the new boy who sought for bullies behind every cloister quickly won the nickname of Don Q.