He left as the prayer-bell rang, and the boys lined up against the wall. The flag lay still unrolled on the desk, Foxy regarding it with pride, for he had been touched to the quick by Mr. Martin’s eloquence. The Head and the Common-room, standing back on the dais, could not see the glaring offence, but a prefect left the line, rolled it up swiftly, and as swiftly tossed it into a glove and foil locker.
Then, as though he had touched a spring, broke out the low murmur of content, changing to quick-volleyed hand-clapping.
They discussed the speech in the dormitories. There was not one dissentient voice. Mr. Raymond Martin, beyond question, was born in a gutter, and bred in a board-school, where they played marbles. He was further (I give the barest handful from great store) a Flopshus Cad, an Outrageous Stinker, a Jelly-bellied Flag-flapper (this was Stalky’s contribution), and several other things which it is not seemly to put down.
The volunteer cadet-corps fell in next Monday, depressedly, with a face of shame. Even then, judicious silence might have turned the corner.
Said Foxy: “After a fine speech like what you ’eard night before last, you ought to take ’old of your drill with re-newed activity. I don’t see how you can avoid comin’ out an’ marchin’ in the open now.”
“Can’t we get out of it, then, Foxy?” Stalky’s fine old silky tone should have warned him.
“No, not with his giving the flag so generously. He told me before he left this morning that there was no objection to the corps usin’ it as their own. It’s a handsome flag.”
Stalky returned his rifle to the rack in dead silence, and fell out. His example was followed by Hogan and Ansell. Perowne hesitated. “Look here, oughtn’t we—?” he began.
“I’ll get it out of the locker in a minute,” said the Sergeant, his back turned. “Then we can—”
“Come on!” shouted Stalky. “What the devil are you waiting for? Dismiss! Break off.”