At the end of a few days, it dawned on Prout that he moved in an atmosphere of perpetual ambush. Mysteries hedged him on all sides, warnings ran before his heavy feet, and countersigns were muttered behind his attentive back. McTurk and Stalky invented many absurd and idle phrases—catch-words that swept through the house as fire through stubble. It was a rare jest, and the only practical outcome of the Usury Commission, that one boy should say to a friend, with awful gravity, “Do you think there’s much of it going on in the house?” The other would reply, “Well, one can’t be too careful, you know.” The effect on a house-master of humane conscience and good intent may be imagined. Again, a man who has sincerely devoted himself to gaining the esteem of his charges does not like to hear himself described, even at a distance, as “Popularity Prout” by a dark and scowling Celt with a fluent tongue. A rumor that stories—unusual stories—are told in the form-rooms, between the lights, by a boy who does not command his confidence, agitates such a man; and even elaborate and tender politeness—for the courtesy wise-grown men offer to a bewildered child was the courtesy that Stalky wrapped round Prout—restores not his peace of mind.
“The tone of the house seems changed—changed for the worse,” said Prout to Harrison and Craye. “Have you noticed it? I don’t for an instant impute—”
He never imputed anything; but, on the other hand, he never did anything else, and, with the best intentions in the world, he had reduced the house-prefects to a state as nearly bordering on nervous irritation as healthy boys can know. Worst of all, they began at times to wonder whether Stalky & Co. had not some truth in their often-repeated assertions that Prout was a gloomy ass.
“As you know, I am not the kind of man who puts himself out for every little thing he hears. I believe in letting the house work out their own salvation—with a light guiding hand on the reins, of course. But there is a perceptible lack of reverence—-a lower tone in matters that touch the honor of the house, a sort of hardness.”
Oh, Prout he is a nobleman, a nobleman, a nobleman!
Our Heffy is a nobleman—
He does an awful lot,
Because his popularity
Oh, pop-u-pop-u-larity—
His giddy popularity
Would suffer did he not!
The study door stood ajar; and the song, borne by twenty clear voices, came faint from a form-room. The fags rather liked the tune; the words were Beetle’s.
“That’s a thing no sensible man objects to,” said Prout with a lop-sided smile; “but you know straws show which way the wind blows. Can you trace it to any direct influence? I am speaking to you now as heads of the house.”
“There isn’t the least doubt of it,” said Harrison angrily. “I know what you mean, sir. It all began when Number Five study came to the form-rooms. There’s no use blinkin’ it, Craye. You know that, too.”
“They make things rather difficult for us, sometimes,” said Craye. “It’s more their manner than anything else, that Harrison means.”
“Do they hamper you in the discharge of your duties, then?”