Trevor waited till the headmaster had gone back to his library, gave him five minutes to settle down, and then went in.
The headmaster looked up inquiringly.
“My essay, sir,” said Trevor.
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten.”
Trevor opened the notebook and began to read what he had written. He finished the paragraph which owed its insertion to Clowes, and raced hurriedly on to the next. To his surprise the flippancy passed unnoticed, at any rate, verbally. As a rule the headmaster preferred that quotations from back numbers of Punch should be kept out of the prefects’ English Essays. And he generally said as much. But today he seemed strangely preoccupied. A split infinitive in paragraph five, which at other times would have made him sit up in his chair stiff with horror, elicited no remark. The same immunity was accorded to the insertion (inspired by Clowes, as usual) of a popular catch phrase in the last few lines. Trevor finished with the feeling that luck had favoured him nobly.
“Yes,” said the headmaster, seemingly roused by the silence following on the conclusion of the essay. “Yes.” Then, after a long pause, “Yes,” again.
Trevor said nothing, but waited for further comment.
“Yes,” said the headmaster once more, “I think that is a very fair essay. Very fair. It wants a little more—er—not quite so much—um—yes.”
Trevor made a note in his mind to effect these improvements in future essays, and was getting up, when the headmaster stopped him.
“Don’t go, Trevor. I wish to speak to you.”