“If you ask me,” said Mr. Seymour, “I should say that it meant that the school, holding the sensible view that first thoughts are best, have ignored the head’s change of mind, and are taking their holiday as per original programme.” “They surely cannot----!” “Well, where are they then?” “Do you seriously mean that the entire school has--has _rebelled_?” “‘Nay, sire,’” quoted Mr. Spence, “‘a revolution!’” “I never heard of such a thing!” “We’re making history,” said Mr. Seymour. “It will be rather interesting,” said Mr. Spence, “to see how the head will deal with a situation like this. One can rely on him to do the statesman-like thing, but I’m bound to say I shouldn’t care to be in his place. It seems to me these boys hold all the cards. You can’t expel a whole school. There’s safety in numbers. The thing is colossal.” “It is deplorable,” said Mr. Wain, with austerity. “Exceedingly so.” “I try to think so,” said Mr. Spence, “but it’s a struggle. There’s a Napoleonic touch about the business that appeals to one. Disorder on a small scale is bad, but this is immense. I’ve never heard of anything like it at any public school. When I was at Winchester, my last year there, there was pretty nearly a revolution because the captain of cricket was expelled on the eve of the Eton match. I remember making inflammatory speeches myself on that occasion. But we stopped on the right side of the line. We were satisfied with growling. But this----!” Mr. Seymour got up. “It’s an ill wind,” he said. “With any luck we ought to get the day off, and it’s ideal weather for a holiday. The head can hardly ask us to sit indoors, teaching nobody. If I have to stew in my form-room all day, instructing Pickersgill II., I shall make things exceedingly sultry for that youth. He will wish that the Pickersgill progeny had stopped short at his elder brother. He will not value life. In the meantime, as it’s already ten past, hadn’t we better be going up to Hall to see what the orders of the day _are_?” “Look at Shields,” said Mr. Spence. “He might be posing for a statue to be called ‘Despair!’ He reminds me of Macduff. _Macbeth_, Act iv., somewhere near the end. ‘What, all my pretty chickens, at one fell swoop?’ That’s what Shields is saying to himself.” “It’s all very well to make a joke of it, Spence,” said Mr. Shields querulously, “but it is most disturbing. Most.” “Exceedingly,” agreed Mr. Wain. The bereaved company of masters walked on up the stairs that led to the Great Hall. CHAPTER XI THE CONCLUSION OF THE PICNIC