'Pull him off my--er--essential guts, will you?' said Beetle from beneath. 'He's squashin' 'em.' They dispersed to their studies. * * * * * No one, the owner least of all, can explain what is in a growing boy's mind. It might have been the blind ferment of adolescence; Stalky's random remarks about virtue might have stirred him; like his betters he might have sought popularity by way of clowning; or, as the Head asserted years later, the only known jest of his serious life might have worked on him, as a sober-sided man's one love colours and dislocates all his after days. But, at the next lesson, mechanical drawing with Mr. Lidgett who as drawing-master had very limited powers of punishment, Winton fell suddenly from grace and let loose a live mouse in the form-room. The whole form, shrieking and leaping high, threw at it all the plaster cones, pyramids, and fruit in high relief--not to mention ink-pots--that they could lay hands on. Mr. Lidgett reported at once to the Head; Winton owned up to his crime, which, venial in the Upper Third, pardonable at a price in the Lower Fourth, was, of course, rank ruffianism on the part of a Fifth Form boy; and so, by graduated stages, he arrived at the Head's study just before lunch, penitent, perturbed, annoyed with himself and--as the Head said to King in the corridor after the meal--more human than he had known him in seven years. 'You see,' the Head drawled on, 'Winton's only fault is a certain costive and unaccommodating virtue. So this comes very happily.' 'I've never noticed any sign of it,' said King. Winton was in King's House, and though King as pro-consul might, and did, infernally oppress his own Province, once a black and yellow cap was in trouble at the hands of the Imperial authority King fought for him to the very last steps of Caesar's throne. 'Well, you yourself admitted just now that a mouse was beneath the occasion,' the Head answered. 'It was.' Mr. King did not love Mr. Lidgett. 'It should have been a rat. But--but--I hate to plead it--it's the lad's first offence.' 'Could you have damned him more completely, King?' 'Hm. What is the penalty?' said King, in retreat, but keeping up a rear-guard action. 'Only my usual few lines of Virgil to be shown up by tea-time.' The Head's eyes turned slightly to that end of the corridor where Mullins, Captain of the Games ('Pot,' 'old Pot,' or 'Potiphar' Mullins), was pinning up the usual Wednesday notice--'Big, Middle, and Little Side Football--A to K, L to Z, 3 to 4.45 P.M.'