CAUGHT
“Got some rather bad news for you, I’m afraid,” began Mr. Appleby.
“I’ll smoke, if you don’t mind. About Wyatt.”
“James!”
“I was sitting in my garden a few minutes ago, having a pipe before
finishing the rest of my papers, and Wyatt dropped from the wall on to
my herbaceous border.”
Mr. Appleby said this with a tinge of bitterness. The thing still
rankled.
“James! In your garden! Impossible. Why, it is not a quarter of an
hour since I left him in his dormitory.”
“He’s not there now.”
“You astound me, Appleby. I am astonished.”
“So was I.”
“How is such a thing possible? His window is heavily barred.”
“Bars can be removed.”
“You must have been mistaken.”
“Possibly,” said Mr. Appleby, a little nettled. Gaping astonishment is
always apt to be irritating. “Let’s leave it at that, then. Sorry to
have disturbed you.”
“No, sit down, Appleby. Dear me, this is most extraordinary.
Exceedingly so. You are certain it was James?”
“Perfectly. It’s like daylight out of doors.”
Mr. Wain drummed on the table with his fingers.
“What shall I do?”
Mr. Appleby offered no suggestion.
“I ought to report it to the headmaster. That is certainly the course
I should pursue.”
“I don’t see why. It isn’t like an ordinary case. You’re the parent.
You can deal with the thing directly. If you come to think of it, a
headmaster’s only a sort of middleman between boys and parents. He
plays substitute for the parent in his absence. I don’t see why you
should drag in the master at all here.”
“There is certainly something in what you say,” said Mr. Wain on
reflection.
“A good deal. Tackle the boy when he comes in, and have it out with
him. Remember that it must mean expulsion if you report him to the
headmaster. He would have no choice. Everybody who has ever broken out
of his house here and been caught has been expelled. I should strongly
advise you to deal with the thing yourself.”
“I will. Yes. You are quite right, Appleby. That is a very good idea
of yours. You are not going?”
“Must. Got a pile of examination papers to look over. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Mr. Appleby made his way out of the window and through the gate into
his own territory in a pensive frame of mind. He was wondering what
would happen. He had taken the only possible course, and, if only Wain
kept his head and did not let the matter get through officially to the
headmaster, things might not be so bad for Wyatt after all. He hoped
they would not. He liked Wyatt. It would be a thousand pities, he
felt, if he were to be expelled. What would Wain do? What would
_he_ do in a similar case? It was difficult to say. Probably talk
violently for as long as he could keep it up, and then consider the
episode closed. He doubted whether Wain would have the common sense to
do this. Altogether it was very painful and disturbing, and he was
taking a rather gloomy view of the assistant master’s lot as he sat
down to finish off the rest of his examination papers. It was not all
roses, the life of an assistant master at a public school. He had
continually to be sinking his own individual sympathies in the claims
of his duty. Mr. Appleby was the last man who would willingly have
reported a boy for enjoying a midnight ramble. But he was the last man
to shirk the duty of reporting him, merely because it was one
decidedly not to his taste.
Mr. Wain sat on for some minutes after his companion had left,
pondering over the news he had heard. Even now he clung to the idea
that Appleby had made some extraordinary mistake. Gradually he began
to convince himself of this. He had seen Wyatt actually in bed a
quarter of an hour before--not asleep, it was true, but apparently on
the verge of dropping off. And the bars across the window had looked
so solid.... Could Appleby have been dreaming? Something of the kind
might easily have happened. He had been working hard, and the night
was warm....
Then it occurred to him that he could easily prove or disprove the
truth of his colleague’s statement by going to the dormitory and
seeing if Wyatt were there or not. If he had gone out, he would hardly
have returned yet.
He took a candle, and walked quietly upstairs.
Arrived at his step-son’s dormitory, he turned the door-handle softly
and went in. The light of the candle fell on both beds. Mike was
there, asleep. He grunted, and turned over with his face to the wall
as the light shone on his eyes. But the other bed was empty. Appleby
had been right.
If further proof had been needed, one of the bars was missing from the
window. The moon shone in through the empty space.
The house-master sat down quietly on the vacant bed. He blew the
candle out, and waited there in the semi-darkness, thinking. For years
he and Wyatt had lived in a state of armed neutrality, broken by
various small encounters. Lately, by silent but mutual agreement, they
had kept out of each other’s way as much as possible, and it had
become rare for the house-master to have to find fault officially with
his step-son. But there had never been anything even remotely
approaching friendship between them. Mr. Wain was not a man who
inspired affection readily, least of all in those many years younger
than himself. Nor did he easily grow fond of others. Wyatt he had
regarded, from the moment when the threads of their lives became
entangled, as a complete nuisance.
It was not, therefore, a sorrowful, so much as an exasperated, vigil
that he kept in the dormitory. There was nothing of the sorrowing
father about his frame of mind. He was the house-master about to deal
with a mutineer, and nothing else.
This breaking-out, he reflected wrathfully, was the last straw.
Wyatt’s presence had been a nervous inconvenience to him for years.
The time had come to put an end to it. It was with a comfortable
feeling of magnanimity that he resolved not to report the breach of
discipline to the headmaster. Wyatt should not be expelled. But he
should leave, and that immediately. He would write to the bank before
he went to bed, asking them to receive his step-son at once; and the
letter should go by the first post next day. The discipline of the
bank would be salutary and steadying. And--this was a particularly
grateful reflection--a fortnight annually was the limit of the holiday
allowed by the management to its junior employees.
Mr. Wain had arrived at this conclusion, and was beginning to feel a
little cramped, when Mike Jackson suddenly sat up.
“Hullo!” said Mike.
“Go to sleep, Jackson, immediately,” snapped the house-master.
Mike had often heard and read of people’s hearts leaping to their
mouths, but he had never before experienced that sensation of
something hot and dry springing in the throat, which is what really
happens to us on receipt of a bad shock. A sickening feeling that the
game was up beyond all hope of salvation came to him. He lay down
again without a word.
What a frightful thing to happen! How on earth had this come about?
What in the world had brought Wain to the dormitory at that hour? Poor
old Wyatt! If it had upset _him_ (Mike) to see the house-master
in the room, what would be the effect of such a sight on Wyatt,
returning from the revels at Neville-Smith’s!
And what could he do? Nothing. There was literally no way out. His
mind went back to the night when he had saved Wyatt by a brilliant
_coup_. The most brilliant of _coups_ could effect nothing now.
Absolutely and entirely the game was up.
* * * * *
Every minute that passed seemed like an hour to Mike. Dead silence
reigned in the dormitory, broken every now and then by the creak of
the other bed, as the house-master shifted his position. Twelve boomed
across the field from the school clock. Mike could not help thinking
what a perfect night it must be for him to be able to hear the strokes
so plainly. He strained his ears for any indication of Wyatt’s
approach, but could hear nothing. Then a very faint scraping noise
broke the stillness, and presently the patch of moonlight on the floor
was darkened.
At that moment Mr. Wain relit his candle.
The unexpected glare took Wyatt momentarily aback. Mike saw him start.
Then he seemed to recover himself. In a calm and leisurely manner he
climbed into the room.
“James!” said Mr. Wain. His voice sounded ominously hollow.
Wyatt dusted his knees, and rubbed his hands together. “Hullo, is that
you, father!” he said pleasantly.