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pauper spirit, sir, a pauper spirit! Work for the night cometh! Now get out and stop wasting my time.'
    When you returned to the form-room you gave the master the initialed note. Then he took his gown off, so that his arms were free, and got the cane out of his desk. The canes were all the same, about thirty inches long and quite thick. Some masters would take you outside into the coat lobby to do it, but others would do it in front of the form. You had to bend down and touch your toes and then he would hit you as hard as he could, as if he were trying to break the cane. It felt like a hot iron across your backside, and if he happened to hit twice in exactly the same place, like a heavy club with spikes on it. The great thing was not to cry or make a fuss. I remember a boy once who wet himself after it and had to be sent home; and there was another one who came back into the room and threw up, so that the master had to send for the school porter to clean up the mess. (They always sent for the porter when a boy threw up, and he always said the same thing when he came in with his bucket and mop—'Is this all?'—as if he were disappointed it wasn't blood.) Most boys, though, when they were caned, just got very red in the face and tried to walk back to their places as if nothing had happened. It wasn't pride; it was the only way to get any sympathy. When a boy cried you didn't feel sorry for him, merely embarrassed because he was so sorry for himself, and resentful because the master would feel that he had done something effective. One of the most valuable things I learned at Coram's was how to hate; and it was the cane that taught me. I never forgot and never began to forgive a caning until I had somehow evened the score with the master who had given it to me. If he were married, I would write an anonymous letter to his wife saying that he was a sodomite and that he had been trying to interfere with young boys. If he were a bachelor, I would send it as a warning to one of the other boys' parents. Mostly I never heard what happened, of course; but on at least two occasions I heard that the parents had questioned their boys and then forwarded my letters to The Bristle. I never told anyone, because I did not want the others copying my idea; and as I was very good at disguising my writing the masters never knew for certain who had done it. Just as long as they had a suspicion they could not prove, I was satisfied. It meant that they knew I could hit back, that I was a good friend but a bad enemy.
    My attitude to Harper was the same. He had given me a 'caning'; but instead of wallowing in self-pity, as any other man in my position might have done, I began to think of ways in which I could hit back.
    Obviously, there was nothing much I could do while he had that 'confession'; but I knew one thing—he was a crook. I didn't yet know what kind of a crook—although I had some ideas—but I would find out for certain sooner or later. Then, when it was safe to do so, I would expose him to the police.
    Nicki was in bed when I got back to the flat. I had hoped that she would be asleep because one side of my face was very red where he had hit me, and I didn't want to have to do any explaining; but she had the light on and was reading some French fashion magazine.
    'Hullo, Papa,' she said.
    I said hullo back and went to the bathroom to get rid of the handkerchief with all the blood on it. Then I went in and began to get undressed.
    ‘You didn't stay long at the Club,' she said.
    'He wanted to go on to Irma's.'
    She did not like that, of course. 'Did you find out any more about him?'
    'He is a business man—accounting machines, I think. He has a friend who owns a Lincoln. He wants me to drive it to Istanbul for him. I start tomorrow. He's paying quite well—a hundred dollars American.'
    She sat up at that That's very good, isn't it?' And then, inevitably, she saw my face.
    ‘What have you done to yourself?'
    'I had a bit of an accident.