At four-fifteen Finnemore was observed to be moving in his strange way across the courts. With an almost suspicious quietness the oak desks were filled.
"What are you doing to-day, Lane?" Finnemore asked the head of the school.
"I believe, sir, we are supposed to be preparing something."
"Ah, excellent; excellent, a very good opportunity for putting in some good, hard work. Excellent! Excellent!"
For about three minutes there was peace. Then Ferguson lethargically arose. He strolled up the steps to the dais, and leaning against the organ loft began to speak:
"Gentlemen, as not only the Sixth Form, but also the Army class and Upper Fifth, are gathered here this afternoon with no very ostensible reason for work, I suggest that we should hold, on a small scale, a Bacchic festival. This will, of course, be not only entertaining but also instructive. 'Life consists in knowing where to stop, and going a little further,' once said H.H. Monro. Let us follow his advice—and that of the Greeks. First, let us shove the desks against the wall and make ready for the dance."
It had all been prepared beforehand. In a few minutes several hundred books had been dropped, several ink-pots lay smashed on the floor. There was a noise of furious thunder, and at last all the desks somehow got shoved against the wall.
Finnemore was "magnificently unprepared." He lay back nervously in his chair, fingering his moustache.
"This must now cease," he said.
"No, really, sir" protested Ferguson; "everything is all right. Mr Carter, will you oblige us by playing the piano. I myself will conduct."