Albert Hewitt’s body quivered under the great hand. He did not dare to turn round.
“No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn’t,” said the small boy.
“You were referring to me by another name,” pointed out Mr. Dofferty.
“No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn’t,” the small boy said again. His voice was hardly more than a whisper.
Mr. Dofferty removed his hand from Albert Hewitt’s shoulder.
“Perhaps you’ll turn round, Albert,” he suggested.
Albert turned round. He did not dare to look up into Mr. Dofferty’s face, cold and remote. The thin thighs of the headmaster seemed to soar into space, like trees. The playground was appallingly empty, but for himself and the soft voice that came down from so high.
“I would like you to look into my face,” requested Mr. Dofferty, “Will you?”
The small boy did as he was told.
Mr. Dofferty continued. “Excellent, Albert. Now, I feel quite certain you won’t lie to me. You were referring to me by a name which I have forbidden the school to use. Is that not so, Albert?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered the small boy. His lips started quivering. He found it as difficult not to lower his eyes from Mr. Dofferty’s eyes as it had been difficult a moment ago to raise them.
“Now, now.” Mr. Dofferty wagged his finger almost playfully. “Don’t make an exhibition of yourself. No harm will come to you, so long as you’re a good boy and speak up. What was it you were saying to those boys, Albert? Come, come, Albert, what was it?”
The boy said not a word. He stared up into Mr. Dofferty’s eyes, as if he had neither ears nor tongue.
“What are you staring at me like that for?” barked Mr. Dofferty. “Is there anything wrong with me?”
The boy’s head sagged suddenly towards his chest.
“Well, Albert!” The headmaster’s voice had become gentle as a dove’s again. “Are you going to tell me what it was you were saying about me?”
“I wasn’t saying nothing,” Albert said. His lower lip projected a little.
“Obstinate, eh?” said Mr. Dofferty, quite gaily now. “You know, Albert,” he almost wheedled, “it will be a lot better for you if you tell me what you were saying.”
“I wasn’t saying nothing,” Albert repeated.
“I see,” Mr. Dofferty said shortly. He raised his eyes to roof-level and joined his hands behind his back. He seemed to be communing with himself. Then he spoke again. His tone was very matter-of-fact. “If you go on disobeying me, I’ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy mumbled.
“Very well, then. Are you going to tell me what you were saying?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you within an inch of your life. Are you going to tell me?” Again silence. “Are you going to tell me?” Mr. Dofferty reached down and got his fingers round the boy’s arm.
With a quick involuntary gesture the boy wrenched his arm free.
“It was only a dream!” he cried. “Let me go home!”
“Oh, it was only a dream?” said Mr. Dofferty, easily. “Why didn’t you say so before, you silly boy?” His heart felt curiously lighter. He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “It’s time we were both going home!”
“Oh, thank you, thank you very much, sir!” cried Albert. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dofferty.” The boy was already scampering off.
“Oh, by the way!” the headmaster called after him.
The boy turned. “Yes, sir?” he asked fearfully.
Mr. Dofferty did not say anything for a moment or two. He realized, in fact, he had nothing to say. He was merely aware that he did not like the boy going off like that, as if he had not used the forbidden nickname, as if he were innocent as the shorn lamb. Then he found his lips uttering a question concerning which his mind had no curiosity at all. For, after all, what interest was it to Mr. Dofferty, headmaster, Mr. Dofferty, world-traveler, what dream a snivelling, little elementary schoolboy might dream?
“What did you dream about, Albert?”
The boy’s jaw fell. The faint flush of color that had come up into his face went out completely.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Dofferty. “You were dreaming about me, weren’t you?”
Then, suddenly, Mr. Dofferty remembered how amused all the small boys had been while Albert Hewitt had been holding forth. He had been telling them his dream, of course, a dream about their headmaster. Mr. Dofferty blushed. It was in the last degree undignified for a person in his position to insist on ferreting out a small boy’s dream, whatever the dream was about. But he could not bear the way the boy was lying to him. If the boy would only own up simply and honestly, they could go home, both of them.
“Well, are you going to say something?” asked Mr. Dofferty.
The boy was as silent as a lump of wood.
Mr. Dofferty, suddenly, lost patience. “Very well, then. You will please come along with me.”
He strode forward towards the big door in the middle of the building. The boy hesitated for one moment. He looked round wildly. It was impossible to get away from those long legs.
The sanctum was a room on the right-hand side of the main corridor. Mr. Dofferty took out his bunch of keys and unlocked the door.
“This way,” he said frigidly.
The boy followed. He knew the way well enough. There was a faint smell in the air which turned his stomach, as it had been turned once or twice before. Mr. Dofferty burned joss-sticks, now and again, when his nostalgia for the East got him badly.
The headmaster went over to the table in the middle of the room and carefully removed two or three of his oriental knick-knacks — the soapstone Buddha he used as a paperweight, the ivory-handled Malay kris he used as a paper-knife, the heavy, brass, Chinese seal. He sat down in the space thus cleared and reached casually along the table for his cane.
“Stand here,” he ordered the boy. The boy came and stood beside him. “What was your dream about?”
The boy stood obdurate.
“You’re not going to tell me?” Mr. Dofferty roared. “So, you’re not going to tell me?” He lifted the cane high in air, ready to strike.
“I’ll tell you!” the boy shouted suddenly. “Please, sir, I’ll tell you!”
Mr. Dofferty’s face was a white as a tablecloth, his lips were almost as white. “Very well, then! Go on!”
“I... I... dreamed—” the boy whimpered — “I... I dreamed... that I—” Then he looked up beseechingly. “I can’t tell you, sir!” he wailed.
“I think you can,” said the other.
The boy swallowed hard. “I dreamed in my dream, sir, you was wearing — you was wearing—”
“Go on!”
“You was wearing a long nightgown, sir. It was a silk one, sir, pale blue silk. And... and—” Again the words stuck in the boy’s throat.
Mr. Dofferty was not aware of the boy’s discomfort. He was aware only of his own. He knew he had never felt so ridiculous in all his life before.
“Go on!” he said thickly. “Anything more?”
“Yes, sir!” blubbered the boy. “You was wearing a wreath of daisies round your head!”
“I see,” whispered Mr. Dofferty.
But he did not mean that he himself saw. He meant that the small boys saw, the small boys who had laughed uproariously when Albert had told them his dream. He saw with their eyes his own unspeakable grotesqueness — pale blue nightgown and wreath of daisies.
Why didn’t the small boy get to hell out of it? What was the blob of dirt hanging about for? He must take himself in hand. He must not let the boy realize how naked he had left him, shivering in the whistling blackness, with only a pale blue nightgown round his skinny body, a wreath of daisies for headgear.