Alone upon the wide deserted expanse of the playing fields at Harley there stood, a picture of misery, the only fellow in the school who had not dared to go to Rainhurst. There were, it is true, somewhere in the school, other boys, but they had mostly remained behind under compulsion. Some were in detention and some in the infirmary. A round dozen or so were of a type who never did watch football even when it was taking place under their noses, and they had played no part in that clandestine excursion simply because it had had no attraction for them. But there was only this one boy who had been afraid to go.
It was Christopher Woolf Roe. He was by no means happy, and he was obsessed with a melancholy interest as to what his father would have to say when he knew what the school had done. He gazed out mournfully over the forsaken football ground. No sound of any boyish voice reached his ear. It might have been holiday time. So when a step sounded unexpectedly behind him on the gravel path he turned in surprise. The school porter was crossing from the neighbourhood of the Head’s room, and something in his manner suggested that he was conveying a message. Roe, starving for company, looked at him as a pig looks at some farm hand carrying a pan of swill.
“Do you want me?” he asked hopefully enough.
The porter answered with dignity. As a man of discrimination he had been on the school’s side throughout this strife, and he was not disposed to make conversation with one whom he considered something of a traitor.
“The Headmaster wishes to speak to you, sir,” said he, and withdrew.
Without a word Roe moved away dejectedly towards the stained-glass windows of his father’s room, and passed through the old oak door beside the steps. He had not even the heart to whistle as he went.
He knocked at the door and was greeted by ominous silence. He went in. The Head was standing by the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece, and by every line of his face Roe could see that he was going to address him not as a father but as the Headmaster of a Public School. He moved silently across the carpet.
“Did you want me, sir?” said he respectfully.
He placed one hand in the other and rubbed them gently together.
The Head looked at him grimly. Half-an-hour ago he had stood at his window looking out upon his kingdom. It had struck him quite suddenly that the neighbourhood of the school was strangely quiet. He had leaned out a little farther. He could still see nobody about. Finally he had craned his neck to its limit and turned his head all ways. There was no doubt about it. The school was deserted. He had never seen the place so quiet on a Saturday. The seats under the trees were all unoccupied. No sound came from the fives courts. No figure could be discerned on any pathway. The only houses that he could see looked uninhabited. Sudden perplexity had settled upon him. He had furrowed his brows.... Next he had left his room and had gone into the school and along the corridors to places from which he could see the playing fields from every angle. He peered into the common rooms, inspected the library.... His suspicions became a certainty. There was something wrong. He went back to his own room, and all the way along the corridor the tap of his footfall produced a hollow, echoing ring that spoke of utter emptiness.