Peter's friends were awed into silence. The ceremony which so largely figured in conversation at Gamaliel had at last been performed, and it had been performed on the Junior Prior.
Peter, in mad rush, came upon a meditative figure. The Warden, working late into the night, was at last disturbed. He had arrived in time to see Peter staggering back from a recumbent figure in the middle distance. He watched Peter in his furious career down the lawn, and saw Peter's miserable victim glimmer hastily away into the far turret. The Warden was not ignorant of College politics. He already suspected that this was no ordinary achievement.
"Well, Mr. Paragon," he said as Peter forged into view. "Are these your property?"
He caught at the trousers, and Peter, struck comparatively sober, decided to temporise.
"They are not my property, sir. They are, f-f-th' moment, borrowed."
Peter felt very politic and clever.
"Who is the owner of this property?" asked the Warden.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot tell."
Peter was beginning to feel how impossible it was to face the fact that he had removed the trousers of the Junior Prior. He could not tell the Warden. It seemed indelicate. He wanted to cover the shame of his victim.