“Yes. I suppose it was about that. We were all pals, you see, sir, and the rest of the house seemed satisfied that we’d take a fairish view of things, and so about a month ago, after we’d settled that something must be done, we just let every one know that they could appeal against any impot or caning that those two, Manton and Crossley, proposed to give, and we would decide. But then, you see, sir, if any one appeals, as I said, and the Court upholds the prefect, he gets it twice as hot. Hundred lines instead of fifty, etcetera. We’ve written it all out in a book. ‘Constitution of the Court of Appeal,’ so as to have it regular, and in case we forgot.”
“Good gracious, it’s a constitution, is it!” asked Adams.
David became slightly dignified.
“Yes, we thought it better to put it on an orderly footing, sir,” he said, “and have everything regular, so that we shouldn’t contradict ourselves, and do one thing one time and another another. Also the fellows know what to expect. And, what’s more, we see that the impots are properly done if we confirm them. Canings, too. Why, one day Crossley caned a fellow”—David began to bubble with laughter again—“and he pretended to go to sleep and snore, and when Crossley told him it was all over, he pretended to awake, and said, ‘Hullo, morning already?’ Why, it’s a farce, sir; it’s sheer childish! What’s the use of caning a fellow if you don’t jolly well hurt him? So we took that out of the prefects’ hands and the impots get properly written, and fellows get properly whacked, if it’s a whacking. I don’t say it increases the respect in which the house holds those two little fellows at the top, but surely it’s better to have some authority than none!”
Adams thought over this for a while. The Head had apparently been given to understand by Manton that the authority of the two prefects had been wrenched out of their hands by these large, athletic upstarts of the fifth form, and that in consequence anarchy prevailed, and the house had become a sort of Medmenham Abbey. But David’s account had put a perfectly different aspect on the affair, and one that was eminently reasonable. Adams was a fair-minded man, and, putting aside altogether the fact that he delighted in David and disliked Manton, he believed that David’s version was the true one. It had always been his plan to let the house look after its own affairs as far as possible; he gave it home rule, in fact, and certainly the transfer of government to the fifth form (though highly irregular and in defiance of school-rules) he believed to have been distinctly for the good of the nation. Again (a thing which bore out this view), the first weeks of the half had been full of trouble and worry; small boys were for ever appealing to him against the prefects, and prefects were as constantly invoking his authority to endorse their own lack of it. Then, about a month ago, all these disturbances had ceased, and Adams, with his habitual optimism, had supposed that the house had shaken down together now. But in the light of all this, it seemed far more reasonable to suppose that the remedy had been brought about by this brigandage of authority. Certainly the restoration of peace and quiet was coincident with the establishment of this impertinent Court of Appeal, which would have to come to an end as a recognised institution. But during its existence it seemed to have been effective.
“Do you reverse many of the prefects’ rulings?” asked Adams.
“Oh no, sir, not now,” said David, anxious to do such justice as could be done to those two impotent figureheads. “You see, neither of them liked their silly rulings reversed, and they’ve become much more sensible. But you simply can’t have a prefect looking in your study when you’re out, and wanting to cane you because he finds a pipe there. Fancy Frank or Cruikshank doing a scruggish, low-down trick like that!”
“You seem rather fond of that instance,” said Adams.
“Yes sir, because it’s so jolly typical,” said David.
Adams got up.