“I do it myself,” said Railsford bluntly, “but what has that to do with this matter? You, as a monitor, are on your honour to observe the rules of the school, and see that others observe them. You break them yourself, and encourage others to break them. Is there nothing wrong in that?”
Felgate said nothing, and jauntily took up a book.
“Put down that book, and bring me all the cigars or tobacco you have, at once.”
Railsford said this quietly and firmly. He had lost his shy, hesitating manner with his prefects; and now, when, for the first time, he was in collision with one of their number, he showed himself a stronger man than Felgate, at any rate, had given him credit for being. The prefect looked for a moment as if he would resist. Then he sullenly went to his locker and produced a case containing four cigars.
“These are all you have?”
Felgate nodded.
“They are confiscated by the rules of the school,” said Railsford. “They will be returned to you after breaking-up. I wish I were able to return them to you now, and rely on your honour not to repeat your offence.”
“I don’t want them back,” said Felgate, with a sneer. “You may smoke them yourself, sir.”
He repented of the insult before it had left his lips. Railsford, however, ignored it, and quietly taking the cigars from the case, took them away with him, leaving the case on the table. Felgate’s impulse was to follow him and apologise for his ill-bred words. But his evil genius kept him back; and before bed-time arrived he not only repented of his repentance, but reproached himself for not saying a great deal more than he had. Felgate had a wonderful gift of self-delusion. He knew he had acted wrongly and meanly. “And yet,” he argued, “smoking is no crime, and if the school rules make it one, it doesn’t follow that I’m a sinner if I have a whiff now and then. He admits he smokes himself. He doesn’t call himself a sinner. Easy enough for him to be high and mighty. One law for him and another for me.”
Poor young Bateson had a sorry time of it for the next week. In his terror at the prospect of having to smoke that awful cigar to the bitter end, he had scarcely known what he was saying; and it was not until Felgate charged him with being a sneak that he realised he had said anything to compromise his senior. Felgate was not one of the vulgar noisy sort of bullies, but a good deal worse. He made the wretched Baby’s life miserable with all sorts of exquisite torture. He hounded him on to break rules, and then caught him red-handed, and held over his head threats of exposure and punishment. He passed the word round the house that the boy was a tell-tale, and little was the mercy poor Bateson got either from friend or foe when that became known. Nor did Felgate, in his revengeful whims, omit the orthodox functions of the bully. Only he took care to perform such ceremonies in private, for fear of a mishap. But in these precautions he unluckily reckoned without his host.