None of us stirred, spoke or made sign. The Principal was rapidly losing his temper.
"Boys," he said, "there is something I have not told you. According to the police the disgraceful incident occurred between nine and nine-thirty last night, and it is known to the house-master of one of your houses that one boy, and one only, who had been out without permission, came in after that hour. I now give that boy another chance. Who is he?"
Still no one spoke or stirred. The Principal bit his lip, and again looked down the line of our desks over the upper rims of his spectacles.
"Does nobody speak? Must I call a name? Is it possible that any King William's boy can ask for the double shame of being guilty and being found out?"
Even yet there was no sign from the boys, and no sound except their audible breathing through the nose.
"Very well. So be it. I've given that boy his chance. Now he must take the consequences."
With that the Principal stepped down from his desk, turned his blazing eyes towards the desks of the fifth form and said,
"Stowell, step forward."
We gasped. Stowell was the head boy of the school and an immense and universal favourite. Through the mists of years some of us can see him still, as he heaved up from his seat that morning and walked slowly across the open floor in front to where the Principal was standing. A big, well-grown boy, narrowly bordering on eighteen, dark-haired, with broad forehead, large dark eyes, fine features, and, even in those boyish days, a singular air of distinction. There was no surprise in his face, and not a particle of shame, but there was a look of defiance which raised to boiling point the Principal's simmering anger.
"Stowell," he said, "you will not deny that you were out after hours last night?"