Celia was gesturing urgently as the inner door opened.
"Buy!" I said and I slammed down the receiver.
It was hard to adjust to the dim lighting in the principal's office. His room was loaded with antique fiberglass furniture of the twenty-first century. He sat behind, or rather within, a donut-shaped desk, a moon-faced man with short, monk-like haircut, and bulbous nose.
"You are the parents of Edmund Sponsor?" We nodded. He pressed a button. "Very well. We will send for the boy."
He swivelled around to face a wall of slanting glass which overlooked the children's playground. We could see two ranks of boys in a tug-of-war, and some little girls playing red-rover.
"Scott," he said into a tiny microphone on his desk top. A playground instructor looked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Please send Edmund Sponsor to my office."
"He's not here, sir. I believe he's in the dormitory."