ing, combating the
sickening certainty that I had made a fool of myself, and
determining to believe in the splendour of my attitude and to carry
it through to victory. Carry on, Rupert, carry on. Onward, Christian
soldiers.

I sauntered over to Bramhall House and climbed the stairs to the
house-master's study. Hearing Fillet grunt at my knock, I walked in
to execution.

"Oh, let's see, Ray, you were cl-climbing over, weren't you?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Oh, indeed. Then you shall write five hundred lines of Cicero.
You'll play no games till they're done."

Five hundred Latin lines! God! I had nerved myself for physical
punishment, but for nothing so dreadful as this. This meant long
days of confinement with hard, hard labour. A great mass of tears
rose from somewhere and came dangerously near the surface. But I
kept them down and tried to show, though there was a catch in my
voice, that I was still unbroken.

"Yes, sir. Anything further?"

"Yes indeed." Carpet Slippers sucked in his breath. "A further
hundred lines. P-p-perhaps that'll teach you that rebellion is
expensive."

I swallowed the tears. "No, sir. That won't teach me."

"So? Well, let's say yet another hundred."

Mentally stunned and bleeding, but ready to do battle with the Day
of Judgment itself, I retorted:

"That won't teach me either, sir."

"Oh, indeed. Then we'll add another _three_ hundred--eh?--making a
thousand in all."

And at that point I shamefully broke off the fight. It wasn't
fair--he had all the artillery. I held back the tears, fast
gathering in volume, and gave up the unequal contest. One day my own
guns would come. Quite respectfully I said "Yes, sir," and walked
out. The vanguard of that mighty array of tears had forced its way
as far as my eyes, which felt suspiciously moist. In fact, as I shut
the door and found myself alone--absolutely alone--they nearly came
forth in full cataract. But I saved the situation by thinking hard
of other things and whistling loudly.

I went to an open window in the corridor and, looking out, saw that
the sun had just dispelled the rain. The railings of Kensingtowe
over the roadway were still burnished and glistening with wet, as
were the leaves of shrubs and trees. And the air that touched my
cheek was all soft and sweet-smelling after rain. Resting my elbows
on the window-sill, I told myself that I hated Carpet Slippers;
that I hated Doe and it was all his fault; that I wouldn't do t