He seemed to be back in no time. He heard the school clock strike one. He took the Yale key and fitted it into the door; it would not move; he tugged, pulled it out, forced it in again, and pushed it. With a click it broke in half.
He looked at the big, black, silent buildings in despair—supposing he had to stay out all night. He would die rather than ring.
He went round to the other side of the building and looked up. Then he saw that the dining-room windows were not very high and that he might climb. He caught on to a buttress and pulled himself up; then another hand on the window-sill drew him level.
He found to his delight that the window was not latched. He pushed it up, and then, with one hasty look into the dark cavern beneath him, jumped. He was saluted on his descent with a noise as though all the crockery in the world had fallen about his ears. The sharp collapse of it seemed to go rushing through the silent house for hours; he knew that he had cut his hand and had bruised his knee.
For a moment he was stunned; then slowly he realized what he had done: the tables were laid for the next morning's breakfast, and he had jumped down straight amongst the cups and plates.
He sat up on the floor and began, with his head aching, to staunch the blood that came from the cut. He saw, as in a dream, the door open. Someone was standing there, in a nightshirt, holding a candle; it was Perrin.
“Who's there? What's that?” Perrin held a poker in his other hand.
Traill got up slowly from the floor. “It is I—Traill,” he stammered. He was still feeling stunned.
Perrin held the candle a little closer. “Oh, is it you, Traill?”
“Yes, I have been out. I fell on to the plates and things. I am sorry.”