That part of his dream in which he rose to his feet with a handful of red robe clutched at his hip was extremely lifelike. He was standing on a balcony looking down upon his people, and he was only faintly conscious in his dream that this balcony was the window-sill of his present study. At first the crowd could not restrain their delight at all. Whether this was because they had at last got something good at which to aim their missiles, or whether they were honestly glad to see him looking so well, we cannot judge, but it was a long time before he could obtain a hearing. They simply cheered and cheered and cheered. One man even threw his hat into the air and delayed proceedings for a long time by stubbornly trying to find it again. Eventually the Head’s reception grew to such a pitch that something had to be done about it. So he woke up. He did so with a jerk, and found himself staring at the school porter, who in his turn was staring back at him. There was an extraordinary noise in progress; well, perhaps hardly a noise—the subdued shuffle of feet—the sound of a vast crowd endeavouring to move quietly. At first the Head took this to be some part of his dream which had not entirely vanished, but it continued, and at last he dropped his eyes thoughtfully, looked up again at the porter and said: “Hammond, _what_ is that noise?” Hammond, who had loved the Grey Man himself, had received strict instructions that he was on no account to answer any question of this kind in such words as: “It’s the boys, sir.” The boys he understood would be trying their best to pretend they weren’t there. Hammond did _his_ best to induce the Head to believe it. “_What_ noise, sir?” said he. The Headmaster gazed at him dubiously, and at last decided for reasons of his own not to press the point; he was under a strong impression that a good part of his dream was obstinately refusing to fade away, and he was conscious of a keen desire to move across to the curtains and draw them aside. He was prepared to bet with himself that the crowd he had seen in his dreams was not so mythical as he had at first supposed. The porter, however, gave him no time to secure proof. He had a one-line part in the evening’s drama and he spoke it with pride. His voice was loud and clear, even a little pompous: “The captain of the school, sir, wishes to speak to you.” The Head peered at him. “Who?” “_The captain of the school_, sir.” “What does he want?” Hammond was respectfully patient. “He wants to see you, sir.” “To see me? Who? Who does?” Dr Roe, you see, was still paying only partial attention. This time Hammond made no answer at all. He merely stared at the Head. Dr Roe tumbled to it suddenly. He had still been wondering what was really happening outside his window, but the sight of the school porter’s pitiful stare brought him to his senses abruptly. He waved a hand. “Well, well,” said he, “show him in.” Hammond went like a rat from a cage.