All this, and more, Mr. Chowdler said to the headmaster on behalf of his Prætor, and he was profoundly shocked when Mr. Flaggon, after listening attentively to the counsel for the defence, announced that he was going to deprive le Willow of his Prætorship and Prefectship, not merely temporarily, but for the term of his natural life. “I fail to see where the mercy comes in,” growled Mr. Chowdler.
“Perhaps in my not flogging him into the bargain,” replied Mr. Flaggon. “But, really, I don’t consider this a case for mercy. The boy is in a position of trust. Five days ago I called the Prefects together and spoke to them about their duties, especially the duty of setting a good example: and I mentioned smoking by name. All the circumstances aggravate the offence. I have no right to be merciful.”
“But probably he didn’t understand,” pleaded Mr. Chowdler. “You don’t know what a business it is to drive any idea into that poor, thick old head of his. The boy’s as honest as the daylight, but terribly obtuse.”
“If he can’t understand a plain speech and a plain duty,” replied Mr. Flaggon, “he is certainly not fit to exercise power.”
“You can’t prevent a boy with such athletic gifts and such a sunny nature from exercising power by any official ukase,” said Mr. Chowdler, with increasing warmth. “If you destroy his self-respect by a punishment which he feels to be unjust, you take away from him all motives for doing right; you drive him into evil courses.”
“I intend my Prefects to govern,” replied Mr. Flaggon; “and you can never get men or boys to act responsibly unless you visit grave breaches of duty on them heavily. I am sorry for le Willow, if he is all that you describe him; but I cannot alter my decision.”
“You admit then,” snapped out Mr. Chowdler, “that you are sacrificing the boy to an abstract theory.”
“I admit nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Flaggon.
A good many of the masters, who did not share Mr. Chowdler’s enthusiasm for le Willow, approved of the headmaster’s action; and, though they did not say so publicly, were not sorry to see Mr. Chowdler’s straying sheep treated for once in a way like other people’s straying sheep. But Mr. Chowdler himself made no attempt to conceal his displeasure either from masters or boys.
“I don’t call that kind of thing discipline,” he said; “I call it panic. A strong man doesn’t hit about wildly without caring where the blow falls. With all his faults, dear old Gussy was never unjust. Le Willow’s too good an old fellow at bottom to be soured for long or lose his sunny nature. But that’s how criminals are made.”