It was only a very few minutes since he had sent Carr away, and to find now that when he really wanted him he had entirely disappeared was more than Coles could bear. He choked back a sob of despair and tried again. This time he shouted, if possible, more loudly and more angrily. Still there was silence. He muttered: “Where is he?” in a sort of stage whisper full of threatening significance, almost as if he believed Carr might be hiding a few yards away and, hearing him, would come out. He was really very like a spoilt child. It is said that walls have ears. If so, one must pity the wall which received the full blast of Coles’ next cry. Coles meant to attract attention or burst, and to do one or the other he richly deserved. As it happens, he attracted the attention of Rouse, who appeared round the corner with an expression of extreme annoyance. “Are you ill?” said he. “Do you want help?” “I want my fag,” snapped Coles. “He was here only a minute ago, the jackass.” “The chances are that your first shout knocked him flat on his face,” said Rouse, “and he’s lying round the corner in a fit. It nearly had that effect on me. I thought you’d been taken queer. If it’s only your fag you want would you mind stopping that unholy row, or else only make it at stated times, so that a fellow could know it was coming and be ready for it?” Coles began to go pink and white by turns. He was very nearly losing all control of himself. He badly wanted to hit somebody in the eye, and the only consideration that kept him from doing so at once was uncertainty as to whether it would be altogether a good thing to start on Rouse. Had he known what had actually happened he might, however, have even risked this. Rouse had met Carr down the corridor on his way back from the meeting and had stopped for a minute to speak to him, bent on displaying good spirits at all costs in case the boy might already have heard what had happened. In the middle of his conversation Coles’ first shout had reached their ears, and Bobbie Carr had moved as if to go in answer to it. Before he had time to start, however, the second cry had come, and Rouse had turned in the direction from which it came almost angrily. “What’s he making that row for?” said he. “Don’t go. That fellow ought to learn how to treat a fag before he has one. You push off. I’ll tell him I sent you on an errand. I’ll go and tick him off.” Bobbie Carr seemed a little uncertain. “I’d better answer him,” said he at last. At that moment the third shout reached their ears. “Listen to that,” said Rouse. “He’s off his head. If you go to him now the first thing he’ll do will be to catch you a whack across the face, and then I shall have to come in and intervene. It’s hardly fair to Coles. You go. I’ll go along and see if I can calm him down by means of the honeyed word.” Eventually Bobbie saw that Rouse meant it and moved slowly away, though, if Rouse’s forecast were true, it seemed to him a little like funking.