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 95Headmaster 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 96threw 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:
97“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 ............