Michael looked round in despair, stammered, broke down, and then to his own eternal chagrin burst into tears. He moved hastily over to the window, striving to pull himself together, seeing through an overpowering blur the great green field in the garish sunlight. Yet his tears, shameful to him, may have turned the scale, for one by one the masters came forward with eager testimony of good; and with every word of praise the tears rushed faster and faster to Michael’s eyes. Then he heard old Caryll’s rasping cough and broken benignant sentences, which with all their memories lulled his emotion to quietude again.
“Hope you’ll bring it in non probatum, Headmaster”—cough—cough—“good boys both”—cough—cough—“sure it’s a mistake—Fane’s a good boy too—idle young rascal—but a good heart”—cough—cough—“had him under me for a year—know him well——”
Dr. Brownjohn, with a most voluminous wave, dismissed the matter. Everyone, even the Paul Pry of a Secretary, went out of the room, and as the door closed Michael heard Mr. Caryll addressing the victims.
“Now then, don’t cry any more, you young boobies.”
Michael’s thoughts followed them upstairs to the jolly class-room, and he almost smiled at the imagination of Mr. Caryll’s entrance and the multitudinous jokes that would demonstrate his relief at his pupils’ rescue. Michael recovered from his dream to find the Headmaster speaking to him in his most rumbling bass.
“I don’t know why I allowed you to interfere in this disgraceful affair, boy. Um?”
“No, sir,” Michael agreed.
“But since you are here, I will take the opportunity of warning you that the company you keep is very vile.”
Michael looked apprehensive.
“If you think nothing is known of your habits out of school, you are much mistaken. I will not have any boy at my school frequenting the house of that deboshed nincompoop Wilmot.”