“But all the same, I know what it means to expel a boy. He’s a marked man for life. I’m going to give you another chance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But you’ve got to make this thing good first. You’ve got to go to the headmaster yourself and tell him all about it—now, at once. Do you see?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was going to be an awkward business, and Roland made no attempt to conceal it from himself. It was just on the half-hour as he walked across the courts. Afternoon school was beginning. Groups had collected round the classrooms, waiting for the master to let them in. Johnson waved to him from a study window and told him to hurry up and help them with the con.
“Don’t wait for me,” Roland called back. “I’ve got one or two things to do. I shall be a little late.”
“Slacker,” Johnson laughed.
It was funny to see the machine revolving so smoothly, with himself, to all outward appearance, a complacently efficient cog in it. He supposed that a criminal must feel like this when he watched people hurry past him in the streets; all of them so intent upon their own affairs and himself seemingly one with them, but actually so much apart.
He knocked at the headmaster’s door.
“Come in.”