“Yes, yes, so do I. But I think also that it would have been uncommonly mean if he had not. I have forgiven Reginald, partly because of his confession, partly too because I feel quite confident that he is not the ringleader, that he too has been to some extent a victim. I am not quite sure that he altogether deserves the immunity I have promised him—the complete immunity was a concession to you.” “To me, sir?” “Yes——” “I don’t see how, sir?” “No? Well, perhaps some time you will. You may go now. I am sorry for what has occurred; sorry to have felt it my duty to accuse you, to probe your replies. You will consider yourself, however, gated until further notice, and so will your friends, Wilson and Lawrence. I do not propose to overlook your breaking bounds at midnight. If that happens again, look out for more serious trouble.” “Thank you, sir.” They shook hands then, and Tony left. How, how, mused the Head, as he looked after the boy, was one to put pressure upon the keenness of that sense of honor; and should one, if one could? Sometimes even a head master realizes that there are limits to his wisdom. One of the indications that the limits of Doctor Forester’s wisdom were less restricted than is often the case was the sincerity with which he frequently questioned his own actions. After dinner Tony found his cronies waiting in the quadrangle back of the Old School for a report on his interview with the Head. He informed them briefly of the fact that he had been cleared and discharged on the several items of the accusations, but also of the penalty of gating that had been imposed upon the trio. “Well, that’s all very nice and jolly,” said Kit, as the three sat and kicked their heels against a bench outside their form common-room, “and really not much of a soak for the provocation we undoubtedly gave ‘em. I only hoped in the old gentleman’s excitement about the shanty that he’d forget our minor sins. Not he! But, on the other hand, considering that they spoiled the best part of the lark and insulted you uncommonly by supposing all manner of rotten immoral things, I’m equally torn as to whether it’s not an awful roast and with wondering how we get off at all, at all.” “Say, kiddo, you are all tangled up,” said Tony, feeling Kit’s head for indications of unsuspected abnormalities. “I am, I confess it,” that youth blandly responded. “Kindly inform Jim and me, who’ve been unfeelingly omitted from these interesting interviews, who was the victim that went so willingly to the sacrifice?” “Well,” interrupted Jimmie, “not Arty Chapin—” “No, Chapin’s a bounder.” “Not Hen Marsh.” “No, Hen’s a shadow of Arty’s, and a poor measly sort of shadow at that.” “Nor Buster Thorndyke.” “Rather not,” assented Kit; “Buster’s just plain garden variety of no good.”