He moved haughtily away, his duty done. Rouse and Terence looked thoughtfully after him.
“I think I’ll go along,” said Rouse, in a low voice. “When he sees how wet I am he’ll cut it short.”
“I’ll come along too.”
Rouse laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. “No. Leave things alone for now. I’ll go and see what he’s got to say. There’ll be plenty of time for you afterwards. Go in and see if you can’t bag me a hot bath! And,” he added over his shoulder as he was moving off, “somewhere in my study there’s a tin of sardines. It would be a rather pleasing thought if you bust it open so that we can give them a decent burial on a slice of bread.”
Terence made no answer: he just stood hesitantly where Rouse had left him watching as he went to meet his doom.
And now the way across the sodden football ground seemed very long. Only now that he was alone, and going backward instead of forward, did Rouse thoroughly realise the ache that was in his legs. Each footstep became a dragging effort.
It suddenly struck him that this would never do. Roe would be watching him. Very likely the Head was peeping out from behind his curtains. He would look to them as if he were going guiltily to the scaffold. He assumed an extravagant jauntiness after that. On the gravel path he met the group of enthusiasts who had been walking behind him all the way from Rainhurst, and he stopped and curveted humorously before them, his overcoat shining like oilskin, raindrops flying like spray from his sleeves and trouser legs.
“The performing sea-lion,” said he. “My next will be Sir Henry Irving.” He suddenly whipped his bowler hat from his head, dented it with one blow of his clenched fist and pulled it far down over his ears. Then he stood before them with folded arms. “Fifty faces under one hat—Napoleon!” His hands flew to the battered bowler and twisted it round with wild movements. “Charlie Chaplin!” Again he bounded about. His hat received another violent buffet. He faced them again. “A Nun!” Then he pulled it to one side and declared “Father Christmas!” Finally he made one swift gesture and struck another pose. “The Head Man of Harley,” said he. “Hard Roe.”
So far as it could be, it was lifelike. The hat was perched well forward over his forehead and his mouth was drawn down into a scowl. One knee was bent a little and his hands were clasped behind imaginary coat-tails.
For perhaps two seconds he held the pose. Then a thunderous roar reached him from almost immediately above his head. It was the voice of the Head, and the noise shaped itself at last into the word: “Rouse!”