A MOLE-HILL AND A MOUNTAIN
The new Head had dined well and in due course had retired to that wide
room of heavy curtains and stained-glass windows wherein the Grey Man
had always seemed so admirable a Head. Dr Roe did not seem at all in
keeping with that place of peaceful dignity. This had been one of the
things that had troubled Toby most. He was too loud of speech, too free
of gesture, and he had not the upright presence which had been so
memorable a part of the man whose hair and eyes and clothing had been
grey.
The new Head had retired to his study that evening much as a dog retires
to his kennel with a bone. He had taken papers and a long cigar and had
sat down heavily in the great arm-chair beside the fireplace; then,
leaning back, he had rested his head against a blue plush cushion, with
a sigh of deep content. Now his eyes passed slowly round the room,
taking in previously unnoticed features, and at last came back to the
fire, where they fixed a sleepy gaze upon some vision in the glowing
coals. It was a small fire, for summer had scarcely passed, but Dr Roe
was a lover of fires and he had ordered this especially. He poked it
with his boot and upset a few cinders into the grate. Finally, he
considered the papers he had brought with him for perusal. They seemed
but faintly interesting, and eventually the memory of his dinner proved
too much: slowly his eyes closed. Within a few moments the new
Headmaster of Harley was dozing in his chair with nodding head and mouth
agape.
Now whilst he dozed he had a dream. It was the usual silly sort of dream
and he found himself cast for the part of king. He was only the king of
one of those insignificant little states whose troubles form the plot of
many a comic opera, but that is better than not being a king at all, and
at all events he was surprisingly well loved. In his dream the whole
populace were acclaiming him. He was being bombarded with flowers. His
courtiers (amongst whom might be noticed the school bursar looking very
natty in red velvet) stood smilingly around him, bowing and waving to
the swaying crowd gathered before his window. He himself was behaving in
a kingly but somewhat distant manner, and once when an ornamental basket
of hollyhocks had caught him a crashing blow between the eyes he had
shown annoyance. It seemed clear in this dream, however, that sooner or
later he would have to make a speech, and as he considered himself by no
means a bad speaker he did not keep the crowd waiting any longer than
was proper.
That part of his dream in which he rose to his feet with a handful of
red robe clutched at his hip was extremely lifelike.
He was standing on a balcony looking down upon his people, and he was
only faintly conscious in his dream that this balcony was the
window-sill of his present study.
At first the crowd could not restrain their delight at all. Whether this
was because they had at last got something good at which to aim their
missiles, or whether they were honestly glad to see him looking so well,
we cannot judge, but it was a long time before he could obtain a
hearing. They simply cheered and cheered and cheered. One man even threw
his hat into the air and delayed proceedings for a long time by
stubbornly trying to find it again. Eventually the Head’s reception grew
to such a pitch that something had to be done about it.
So he woke up.
He did so with a jerk, and found himself staring at the school porter,
who in his turn was staring back at him.
There was an extraordinary noise in progress; well, perhaps hardly a
noise—the subdued shuffle of feet—the sound of a vast crowd endeavouring
to move quietly. At first the Head took this to be some part of his
dream which had not entirely vanished, but it continued, and at last he
dropped his eyes thoughtfully, looked up again at the porter and said:
“Hammond, _what_ is that noise?”
Hammond, who had loved the Grey Man himself, had received strict
instructions that he was on no account to answer any question of this
kind in such words as: “It’s the boys, sir.” The boys he understood
would be trying their best to pretend they weren’t there. Hammond did
_his_ best to induce the Head to believe it.
“_What_ noise, sir?” said he.
The Headmaster gazed at him dubiously, and at last decided for reasons
of his own not to press the point; he was under a strong impression that
a good part of his dream was obstinately refusing to fade away, and he
was conscious of a keen desire to move across to the curtains and draw
them aside. He was prepared to bet with himself that the crowd he had
seen in his dreams was not so mythical as he had at first supposed. The
porter, however, gave him no time to secure proof. He had a one-line
part in the evening’s drama and he spoke it with pride.
His voice was loud and clear, even a little pompous:
“The captain of the school, sir, wishes to speak to you.”
The Head peered at him.
“Who?”
“_The captain of the school_, sir.”
“What does he want?”
Hammond was respectfully patient.
“He wants to see you, sir.”
“To see me? Who? Who does?”
Dr Roe, you see, was still paying only partial attention.
This time Hammond made no answer at all. He merely stared at the Head.
Dr Roe tumbled to it suddenly. He had still been wondering what was
really happening outside his window, but the sight of the school
porter’s pitiful stare brought him to his senses abruptly. He waved a
hand.
“Well, well,” said he, “show him in.”
Hammond went like a rat from a cage.
Next moment the door opened again and Pointon appeared, a tall, studious
young man considerably impressed with the importance of the occasion.
He was not alone. As he entered, the Head saw a string of young men
behind him, and he rose to his feet in surprise.
“What is this?”
Pointon spoke in a calm voice. If anything the Head was the more excited
of the two.
“Some prefects of the school ask to be allowed to speak to you, sir.”
“What is it about?”
The deputation moved into the room, looked round almost instinctively
for the Grey Man, and then brought their eyes to bear, as one man, upon
the Head who had taken his place.
“About Rouse, sir,” said Pointon. “They wish me as their spokesman to
tell you that Rouse is the only fellow they wish to elect as captain of
football, and they ask you to——”
The Head advanced upon them in growing anger.
“Then it is quite useless,” he replied. “You would have done better not
to have come. My mind is irrevocably made up. I come from Wilton, and at
that school they knew me before I left to be a man of iron
determination. By trying to dissuade me you will only make me more
resolute. I have made my decision and communicated it to the school. I
expect you to abide by that decision without a murmur. To come here like
this is a sign of weakness amongst those whom I expected to set the
school an example, and it is very displeasing to me.”
“Will you hear us, sir?” said Smythe. “There are some things which we
think you can’t realise.”
Dr Roe turned upon him irritably.
“No,” said he, “I will not hear you. I have heard more than enough of
this matter. You are one and all making a mountain out of a mole-hill.
It is preposterous to suggest that there is only one boy in a great
Public School like this who is agreeable to you as captain of football.
If you had only eyes to see, you would understand for yourselves what I
saw in twenty-four hours and was in time to prevent. Rouse is the one
boy here who is least suited of any of you for the post. You cannot see
that for yourselves and it is my duty to guide you; it is my intention
to do my duty with a will of iron. They knew me at Wilton, and before
very long you will know me here.” He paused. They were sullenly quiet.
“Well,” he said, “are you prepared to elect a captain?”
For a moment there was absolute silence.
Pointon turned and looked round his deputation as if for support. At
last Terence Nicholson spoke.
[Illustration:
“THE HEAD ADVANCED UPON THEM IN GROWING ANGER.”]
“No, sir,” said he; “we are not. You won’t hear us and you don’t
understand.”
He drew back and fixed Terence with a wrathful glare.
“Mr Nicholson has said everything you could say over and over again.
There is no scope left for argument at all. I understand that you refuse
to obey me. If so, you leave the election of a captain entirely in my
hands. You refuse to elect your own?”
Once again there was silence. And this time the silence was significant.
After Toby’s experience they had not expected a fair hearing; the belief
that Dr Roe was going to fight them was now a certainty.
The Head turned and moved suddenly towards the window. His curiosity as
to what was really happening outside would no longer be denied. He
reached the curtain with outstretched hand and tugged it aside.
And then in the gathering dusk of late evening he saw what he had to
combat. This little upheaval of school life had once seemed to him
merely a mole-hill. But he had spoken truly: they had made of it a
mountain. As far as the eye could reach there stretched a sea of faces
showing above the clear white of schoolboys’ collars, very silent and
very still, waiting as if for a signal from within. He stared out upon
the scene for thirty seconds and at last he turned. Even in this wide
room the silence was tense. Not one of the deputation seemed to be
really drawing breath. The new Head faced them sternly, his grim visage
more than ever like the face of a bloodhound, his spectacles set firmly
upon the broad bridge of his nose.
“What does that mean?” he said at last. “Why are all those boys out
there? What do they want?”
Terence stepped forward boldly. There was the joy of battle in his eyes.
“They want Rouse, sir,” said he. “Every mother’s son amongst them—and
they are waiting for your answer.”
The Head’s eyes hardened till they shone like steel.
“Very well,” said he. “Then you may make it known at once.” He paused
and looked at each boy in turn, and at last he told them in slow
emphatic words how he had planned his answer.