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headmaster asked to see the report books of some boys in Mr Pedigree’s class. They sat at a table in the headmaster’s study with the green filing-cabinets at their back. Mr Pedigree talked volubly about Blake and Barlow, Crosby and Green and Halliday. The headmaster nodded and turned the reports over.
    “I see you haven’t brought Henderson’s along.”
    Mr Pedigree lapsed into frozen silence.
    “You know, Pedigree, it’s most unwise.”
    “What’s unwise? What’s unwise?”
    “Some of us have peculiar difficulties.”
    “Difficulties?”
    “So don’t give these private lessons in your room. If you want to have boys in your room—”
    “Oh but the boy’s welfare!”
    “There’s a rule against it, you know. There have been—rumours.”
    “Other boys—”
    “I don’t know how you intend me to take that. But try not to be so—exclusive.”
    Pedigree went quickly, with heat round his ears. He could see clearly how deep the plot was; for as the graph of his cyclic life rose towards its peak he would suspect all men of all things. The headmaster, thought Pedigree—and was half-aware of his own folly—is after Henderson himself! So he set about devising a scheme by which he could circumvent any attempt on the part of the headmaster to get rid of him. He saw clearly that the best thing was a cover story or camouflage. As he wondered and wondered what to do, he first rejected a step as impossible, then as improbable, then as quite dreadful—and at last saw it was a step he would have to take, though the graph was not falling.
    He braced himself. When his class was settled he went round them boy by boy; but this time, beginning with awful distaste at the back. Deliberately he went to the corner where Matty was half-hidden by the cupboard. Matty smiled up at him lopsidedly; and with a positive writhe of anguish, Pedigree gave a grin into the space above the boy’s head.
    “Oh my goodness me! That’s not a map of the Roman Empiremy young friend! That’s a picture of a black cat in a coal cellar in the dark. Here, Jameson, let me have your map. Now do you see Matty Windrap? Oh God. Look I can’t spend time loitering here. I’m not taking prep this evening, so instead of going there you just bring your book and your atlas and the rest of it to my room. You know where that is don’t you? Don’t laugh you men! And if you do particularly well there might be a sticky bun or a slice of cake—oh God—”
    Matty’s good side shone upwards like the sun. Pedigree glanced down into his face. He clenched his fist and struck the boy lightly on the shoulder. Then he hurried to the front of the classroom as if he were looking for fresh air.
    “Henderson, fair one. I shan’t be able to take you for a lesson this evening. But it’s not necessary is it?”
    “Sir?”
    “Come here and show me your book.”
    “Sir.”
    “Now there! You see?”
    “Sir—aren’t there going to be any more lessons upstairs, sir?”
    Anxiously Mr Pedigree looked into the boy’s face, where now the underlip stuck out.
    “Oh God. Look, Ghastly. Listen—”
    He put his fingers in the boy’s hair and drew his head nearer.
    “Ghastly, my dear. The best of friends must part.”
    “But you said—”
    “Not now !”
    “You said!”
    “I tell you what, Ghastly. I shall be taking prep on Thursday in the hall. You come up to the desk with your book.”
    “Just because I did a good map—it’s not fair!”
    “Ghastly!”
    The boy was looking down at his feet. Slowly he turned away and went back to his desk. He sat down, bowed his head over his book. His ears were so red they even had a touch of Matty’s purple about them. Mr Pedigree sat at his own desk, his two hands trembling on it. Henderson shot him a glance up under his lowered brows and Mr Pedigree looked away.
    He tried to still his hands, and he muttered,
    “I’ll make it up to him—”
    Of the three of them only Matty was able to show an open faceto the world. The