Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

―It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

―Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his desk.

―You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.

―Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.