Manor easily. Some
of the fags whispered to each other that the injuries inflicted by the
Head Master on Scaife had been so severe as to incapacitate the
star-player of the House. Two boys had concealed themselves in the
Armoury (which is just below the Fourth Form Room) upon the morning
when Scaife was flogged. But they reported--nothing. However severe
the punishment might have been, Scaife received it without a whimper.

In truth, Scaife received but one cut, and that a light one. The Head
Master wished to lay stripes upon the boy's heart, not his body. When
he saw him prepared to receive punishment, he said gravely--

"I have never flogged a member of the Eleven. And now, at the last
moment, I offer you the choice between a flogging and expulsion."

"I prefer to be flogged."

_And then--one cut_.

But Scaife never forgot the walk from the Yard to the Manor, after
execution. He was too proud to run, too proud not to face the boys he
happened to meet. They turned aside their eyes from his furious glare.
But he met no members of his own House. They had the delicacy to leave
the coast clear. When he reached his room, he found Desmond alone.
Desmond said nervously--

"I asked Warde if we could have breakfast here this morning, instead of
going into Hall. I've got some ripping salmon."

Scaife had faced everything with a brazen indifference, but the
sympathy in his friend's voice overpowered him. He flung himself upon
the sofa by the window and wept, not as a boy weeps, but with the
cruel, grinding sobs of a man. He wept for his stained pride, for his
vain-glory, not because he had sinned and caused others to sin. The
boy watching him, seeing the hero self-abased, hearing his
heartbreaking sobs, interpreted very differently those sounds.
Infinitely distressed, turning over and over in his mind some soothing
phrases, some word of comfort and encouragement, Desmond waited till
the first paroxysm had passed. What he said then shall not be set down
in cold print. You may be sure he proved that friendship between two
strong vigorous boys is no frail thread, but a golden chain which
adversity strengthens and refines. Scaife rose up with his heart
softened, not by his own tears, but by the tears he saw in Desmond's
eyes.

"I'm all right now," he said. Then, with frowning brows, he added
thoughtfully, "I deserve what I got for being a fool. I ought to have
foreseen that such a swine as Beaumont-Green