His son had stumbled once on the bottom stair and had swung forward towards the wall. As he righted himself Hard Roe moved out of the shadows to meet him, and they came face to face. At first the young man did not seem to comprehend the grim reality of it. He just stood swaying upon his heels and smiling at the old man kindly. Next he broke into cackling laughter.
“I can’t help it,” he confessed. “I’m—I’m drunk.”
Hard Roe threw out his hand and clutched him by the shoulder.
“Stand up! You are my son.”
Roe made a belated attempt to look apologetic.
The Head laid his other hand alongside the first and shook him savagely.
“Where have you been? Why are you like this?”
He was speaking through clenched teeth and his arms were trembling with the force of his passion. But there came only an unresponsive silence. If there is one particular phase of drunkenness at which one may best appreciate the beastliness of it, then it is at that moment when one perceives the subject looking around him as if in search of a convenient spot in which to be sick.
The Head removed his hands and they fell weightily to his sides. He began to jerk words incredulously at his son, as if his power of speech was somehow dislocated.
“You understand—you understand. You are the Headmaster’s son. You are captain of football. You came as an example to them. I——”