Mr. Chase, acting on the advice of the headmaster, had written in December to the parents of three of his new boys, asking them to find out, in the course of the holidays, whether the moral tone of the house was in a healthy condition; and, if anything was wrong, to communicate confidentially with him. In each case he had received a formal acknowledgment of his letter, and, as nothing further had come of it, his mind was at ease. And then, suddenly, a bolt fell from the blue. Mr. Chase received one morning an eight-page letter, marked private and confidential, which made him turn very pale and entirely took away his appetite for breakfast. The writer of this letter related that he had, during the holidays, put certain questions to his son, and, after some pressing, had extracted from him a story which showed that, from the moral point of view, the school generally and Mr. Chase’s house in particular were in a very bad state. The boy, however, had implored him not to say anything to the authorities, as the two worst offenders had left at Christmas and things were certain to be much better next Term. He had, however, by that morning’s post, received a letter from his boy, which revived all his anxieties. The boy wrote that he was very unhappy and wanted to be taken away. “Under these circumstances,” the father concluded, “I feel bound, in the interests of the school as well as of my own child, to take you into my confidence; and I have written you a full account of all that I know. I only beg that, in whatever steps you take, you will manage to keep my boy’s name out of it. Dislike of being an informer, and fear of the possible consequences to himself, naturally weigh very heavily on him. But, clearly, something must be done, and done at once; and, if you wish it, I am quite prepared to come to Chiltern myself and see you about the matter.”
Mr. Chase read the letter several times with a strong sensation of physical nausea, and sat for a while afterwards in his study trying to think. When the first shock had passed off, he began to cherish a hope that the boy might perhaps have exaggerated. Now that he came to think of it, it struck him that the boy was rather an excitable boy and, very likely, inclined to be hysterical. But he was an honourable man; and, though the facts, as related, were a reflection on his own competence, he carried the letter straight to the headmaster.
Mr. Flaggon guessed what must be passing in his colleague’s mind, and his manner was both sympathetic and cordial. He thanked Mr. Chase warmly for having taken him at once into his confidence; and, together, the two men discussed what ought to be done. Should the father be invited to come to Chiltern and procure further and yet more detailed information, or should they act at once? Mr. Flaggon thought that there was danger in delay. The boy might become frightened and retract, or, possibly, give a hint of what was brewing to a friend. “Our best chance,” he said, “of getting at the whole truth is to strike at once while the offenders are off their guard; and, if the facts are as they have been stated, we have enough to go upon. Besides, if the father comes down and sees his son, everybody will guess the source of our information; and we are bound in honour to keep the boy’s secret.” Mr. Chase agreed; and, accordingly, that evening after locking up, the headmaster went to Mr. Chase’s house and held a searching inquiry. Before it was over, he knew a great many things that he had not known before, and realised how very vile, under its deceptive light-heartedness, life can be in a bad house in a bad school.
Next morning, at first lesson, a rumour spread through a startled school that three of the most prominent Chaseites had been summarily expelled, and that others were to leave at the end of the Term: and Mr. Chase, who looked as though all joy had gone out of life, confirmed the news to his colleagues. Mr. Flaggon had determined to address the school that evening after chapel; but, before he could do so, fresh developments occurred which decided him to wait a little longer. For, in the course of the day, Dennison, the newly appointed Prefect, appeared in his study with a pale face and twitching hands, and asked if he might speak confidentially. The permission was readily granted, and Dennison proceeded to unburden his soul. Everybody, he said, had known for a long time that Chase’s house was “rotten,” but he was afraid his own house was not much better. Since he had been Prefect, he thought there had been an improvement; but, a week ago, he heard of something which had made him very miserable. He didn’t dare to tell Mr. Chowdler; and, though he had been within an ace, more than once, of asking the headmaster for advice, he had never quite made up his mind to do so. It was impossible to get the Prefects to act together, because a Prefect was himself involved, and the others wouldn’t give him away. He had spent sleepless nights worrying over the business; but now he felt that he must make a clean breast of the whole matter. He wanted to do his duty; but he funked—there was no other word for it—the deadly unpopularity which was certain to be the result.
Mr. Flaggon first talked the boy into a calmer mood and then showed him, quietly and sympathetically, what his duty was. He must remove the seal of confidence and endure the unpopularity. The moral welfare of countless boys, present and to come, was at stake. And so, before he left the study, Dennison had braced himself to the most difficult act of courage that a boy can be called on to perform—namely, to defy a traditional code of honour and to face social ostracism.
An inquiry into Mr. Chowdler’s house was necessarily a much more difficult business than an inquiry into Mr. Chase’s. It was obviously impossible for the headmaster to take Mr. Chowdler into his confidence; so, boys had to be sent for separately and interviewed in his own study. There was much coming and going, much leakage of knowledge and consequent reticence or denial. Mr. Flaggon felt that he had never sifted things quite to the bottom. But Dennison stuck to his guns; and, in the end, two boys, one of whom was a Prefect, were expelled at once, and four others were told that they must leave at the end of the Term.
In the Prefect, Mr. Flaggon had long ago recognised one of the three youths who had impressed him so unfavourably on his first visit to Chiltern. In spite of the clearest evidence, this boy persisted in asserting his innocence, and on hearing his sentence he attempted a piece of insolent bluff.
“I shall appeal to Mr. Chowdler,” he said, “and, if he keeps me, I shall stay.”
Mr. Flaggon made no reply, but stepped quickly to the telephone. “Number 92 A ... is the police inspector in? ... no? will he be in at six o’clock this evening?... Thanks. I may have to give somebody into custody.... No thanks, there’s no immediate hurry ... if I want him then, I’ll ring him up.”
And before he had readjusted the receiver, the boy, with a white face, blurted out, “All right, sir, don’t do that. I’ll go at once.” And he left the study with his tail between his legs.