The Dreaming Suburb by R.F. Delderfield Page A

for the classrooms. In less than a minute the yard was empty of everyone except Mr. Little, the inspector, and the twins, with a breathless Mr. Porless peeping from the main door.
    Bernard stood his ground, his cool brain already grappling with the various repercussions he might expect, and Boxer remained because Bernard had given him no alternative lead. The inspector was an observant man, and noticed that the boy against the railings had a crimson ear. He looked from the ear to Mr. Little, now struggling with his third cramp.
    “How did this idiotic business begin?” he demanded, and when Mr. Little seemed incapable of answering, he turned towards the fair-haired boy, who was still standing stiffly to attention, immediately behind the headmaster.
    “He was bashing my brother for moving,” said Bernard, in a curiously flat tone. “He never did move. He stopped, soon as the whistle blew!”
    “That's right, sir,” said Boxer; “then they all started shouting!”
    At last Mr. Little found his voice. He straightened himself and began to speak in a gobbling, high-pitched voice: “He snatched the cane ... he snatched it ...” but the inspector now turned to Mr. Porless, who had at last nerved himself to leave the safety of the buildings.
    “Did you see it begin, Mr. Porless?” he asked briefly.
    Mr. Porless was perspiring freely. He looked even less in command of himself than the headmaster.
    “Well, no, sir ... not exactly ... they ... they ... suddenly seemed to ... er ... get out of hand. I thought I'd better ring ... there was nobody else.”
    “You did perfectly right,” said the inspector crisply. “We'd better all go to the study, and someone had better make arrangement to get Mr. Little home immediately.”
    He turned to Bernard, as Mr. Porless gingerly took hold of his chief's arm.
    “I shall want you two. You'd better come along with me now.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Bernard mildly. “Come on, Boxer.”
    Five hundred pairs of eyes watched the little procession trail across the playground, and disappear through the main door.
    “Lumme!” said Lofty Gibson, climbing down from his observation post on the radiator of Standard Six, “It'll be bloody Borstal for them two, you see if it ain't!”
    There was no reaction to this prophecy among Standard Six. Now that they were back in the classrooms, individualised by their desks, stripped of the security they had enjoyed when they were pressed closely against one another in the tumultuous circle about the groaning headmaster, they felt naked and defenceless. Hysterical elation had ebbed from all but Lofty Gibson, and would ebb from him after a few minutes' reflection.
    They looked at one another and giggled nervously. Mr. Porless waddled in and rapped his ruler on the desk.
    3
    It was fortunate for the twins that Mr. Goreham, the ex-officer Schools Inspector, had had his eye on Havelock Road for some time past.
    Having disposed of the incoherent Mr. Little, who was ultimately taken home by ambulance, and having on his own resonsibility installed Mr. Porless as deputy Head until further notice, he set about seeking corroboration of Bernard Carver's laconic account of the mutiny.
    A conscientious and thoughtful man, he was tremendously impressed by Bernard's manner. The child showed no sense of contrition, or anxiety over reprisals, but simply reiterated his story without the slightest attempt to elaborate. Boxer had not moved. Boxer had been unjustly set upon. He, Bernard, had checked a renewed assault by quietly relieving Mr. Little of his cane, and throwing it into Cawnpore Road, where it was subsequently retrieved by the householder of Number Seventeen.
    All Mr. Goreham could extract from Boxer was three words: “That's right, sir!” and these he repeated as often as Bernard repeated his modest outline of events.
    Soon there was not the slightest doubt in Mr. Goreham's mind that the twins were speaking the plain truth, and his heart warmed towards them.