"Ho, he!" said Oliver; "this is serious; they are sticking to their
strike with a vengeance! I suppose I must go and look for my fag, eh,
Wray? Discipline must be maintained."
So saying, Oliver stepped out into the passage and strolled off in the
direction from which the rebel's voice had proceeded. The passages were
empty; only in the Fourth Junior room was there a sound of clamour.
Oliver went to the door; it was shut. He pushed; it was fortified. He
kicked on it; a defiant howl greeted him from the inside. He called
aloud on his fag; another "Shan't come!" was his only answer.
It was getting past a joke, and Oliver's temper was, as we have seen not
of the longest. He kicked again, angrily, and ordered Paul to appear.
The same answer was given, accompanied with the same yell, and Oliver's
temper went faster than ever. He forgot he was making himself
ridiculous; he forgot he was only affording a triumph to those whom he
desired to punish; he forgot the good resolutions which had held him
back on a former occasion, and, giving way to sudden rage, kicked
desperately at the door once more.
This time his forcible appeal had some effect. The lower panel of the
door gave way before the blow and crashed inwards, leaving a breach
large enough to admit a football.
It was an unlucky piece of success for Oliver, for next moment he felt
his foot grabbed by half a dozen small hands within and held firmly,
rendering him unable to stir from his ridiculous position. In vain he
struggled and raged; he was a tight prisoner, at the mercy of his
captors.
It was all he could do to stand on his one foot, clinging wildly to the
handle of the door. In this dignified attitude Wraysford presently
found his friend, and in such a state of passion and fury as he had
never before seen him.
To rap the array of inky knuckles inside with a ruler, and so disengage
the captive foot, was the work of a minute. Oliver stood for a moment
facing the door and trembling with anger, but Wraysford, taking him
gently by the arm, said, "Come along, old boy!"
There was something in his voice and look which brought a sudden flush
into the pale face of the angry Oliver. Without a word, he turned from
the door and accompanied his friend back to the study. There were no
long talks, no lectures, no remorseful confessions that evening. The
two talked perhaps less than usual, and when they did it was about
ordinary school topics.
No reference was made either then or for a long while afterwards to the
events of the evening. And yet Oliver and Wraysford, somehow, seemed
more than ever drawn together, and to understand one another better
after this than had ever been the case before.