Rouse shot to his full height like a man electrocuted and looked up.
That which might very well have been the head of a bloodhound was silhouetted against the lighted background of an open window.
Rouse slowly punched his hat to its right shape and placed it tenderly upon his head. The window was shut with a resounding bang. He began to move along thoughtfully towards the old oak door, and long after he had passed out of sight beyond it there still stood huddled aside in the darkness his erstwhile audience in attitudes of absolute astonishment.
Alone for a moment, Rouse spent a brief period of time in an attitude of reverence striving to recover his proper dignity. Then he moved solemnly forward across the small space that separated him from the oak door wherein he was to learn his sentence. He knocked respectfully. At first he could hear no answer. But at last the silence was broken and a stern voice said to him: “Come in.”
He went in cheerfully. Except for one electric candlestick upon the writing-table, the room was in darkness, but the candle was so placed that it shone directly upon the Head’s lined countenance, and Rouse could see that it was very grimly set. He moved across the room and stood before the table in readiness to learn the worst. Their eyes met. Rouse did not give way. He looked at the Head, not impudently, but with evident self-reliance. And the Head looked at him.
“Where have you been, Rouse?”
For one moment Rouse was in doubt as to how much was known, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say: “Bird’s-nesting,” or: “I’ve been out into the country, sir, and I was a bit late back.” But something in the other’s expectant eyes warned him, and finally he answered simply enough: “It was the Rainhurst match, sir. And we’ve been to play it.”
The Head made no move. “You led me to believe that the whole of your fixtures for the season were cancelled.” He paused. “In this school—or indeed in any school—there must be one Head and one alone!”
It occurred to Rouse to murmur brightly the truism that two heads are better than one, but he remained discreetly silent.
“My orders were that, until the captain of football was properly recognised in this school, football was to cease. In addition, you have been out of bounds. I find that the whole school have been with you and there is no doubt that it was you who persuaded them to go. You have dared to challenge my authority. By posing as a martyr to my stern ruling you have earned such easy popularity that your vanity has grown into a foolish bubble. I think that when the school wakes up to-morrow to find what you have led them into that bubble will be pricked. You will be no longer a self-appointed hero; you will have very little to be proud about. No doubt you considered that by devising the expedition which you led this afternoon you were covering yourself with fame. It might have been so. But those who knew me at Wilton could tell you that it was a very idle hope if you thought that you could defeat me.” He paused. “Why did you do it?” he demanded, in sudden violent anger.