The last gong clanged. There was a last bang of seats turned down, a last clatter of books upon the desks, the last belated, breathless ones fluttered down aisles with reddened cheeks, while the Professor waited with the Bible open in his hand.
"Let us read this morning the one-hundred-and-seventh Psalm—Psalm one hundred seven."
Peter was in Rugby, hidden by the girl in front. The boy named Bertram fixed his gaze upon the desk before him. Fair and smooth it was—too smooth with newness to please a Rugbeian eye. During the Psalm, with his pocket-knife he cut his initials in the yellow wood, and smiled at them. In days to come other boys would sit where he was sitting, and gaze and puzzle over that rude legacy, and, if dreams came true, might be proud enough to sprawl their elbows where a famous man had lolled. They might even hang the old seat-top upon the wall, that all who ran might read the glory of an alma mater in the disobedience of a mighty son. Bertram Weatherby gazed fondly upon his handiwork and closed his knife. Time and Destiny must do the rest.
"Let us pray."
For a moment the Professor stood there silently with lowered eyes. Bertram and Peter, their shoulders touching, bowed their heads.
"Our Father in heaven...."
There was no altar—only a flat-topped desk; no stained-glass windows—only the sunshine on the panes; and there a man's voice, deep and trembling, and here a school-boy's beating heart.
" ... Help us, O Father, to be kinder...."
How you loved Peter, the Professor, and your ugly Rugby on its hill!