So he woke up.
He did so with a jerk, and found himself staring at the school porter, who in his turn was staring back at him.
There was an extraordinary noise in progress; well, perhaps hardly a noise—the subdued shuffle of feet—the sound of a vast crowd endeavouring to move quietly. At first the Head took this to be some part of his dream which had not entirely vanished, but it continued, and at last he dropped his eyes thoughtfully, looked up again at the porter and said:
“Hammond, what is that noise?”
Hammond, who had loved the Grey Man himself, had received strict instructions that he was on no account to answer any question of this kind in such words as: “It’s the boys, sir.” The boys he understood would be trying their best to pretend they weren’t there. Hammond did his best to induce the Head to believe it.
“What noise, sir?” said he.
The Headmaster gazed at him dubiously, and at last decided for reasons of his own not to press the point; he was under a strong impression that a good part of his dream was obstinately refusing to fade away, and he was conscious of a keen desire to move across to the curtains and draw them aside. He was prepared to bet with himself that the crowd he had seen in his dreams was not so mythical as he had at first supposed. The porter, however, gave him no time to secure proof. He had a one-line part in the evening’s drama and he spoke it with pride.
His voice was loud and clear, even a little pompous:
“The captain of the school, sir, wishes to speak to you.”
The Head peered at him.