The inclination to converse is never very marked on the part of nouveaux, and for the major part the meal proceeded in silence. Then presently his left-hand neighbour, a little boy with a round face and sad blue eyes, said:
“D’you like jam?”
“I like it to eat,” said Wynne, “but it isn’t much good to talk about.”
This was discouraging, as the small boy felt, but he continued bravely:
“I don’t want to talk about it, but I want to talk to some one, and I thought that would be an easy way. I haven’t made a friend yet, and I thought if you’d like to be a friend I could give you some jam mother gave me to bring.”
Before Wynne had time to reply to this sweet overture one of the older boys approached the table.
“All you chaps will go to the gym, when tea is over,” he announced. “In fact you had better go now. Come on.” So saying he herded them down a long corridor to the far end of the building.
“Wait in the dressing-room,” he said. “The Council hasn’t turned up yet. You’ll be called one by one, and you’d better be jolly careful how you answer.”
The door was shut and they found themselves packed closely in a small room full of lockers. With a curious sense of impending evil they waited, and presently a name was called out, and the first sufferer went forth to face the dread ordeal of the Council Chamber.
It was nervy work waiting, since none who went forth returned to bear witness to what was taking place. Hours seemed to pass before Wynne’s name was given by a boy with a low, threatening voice. He stepped bravely from his confinement, and, hands in pockets, walked into the centre of the gymnasium.