Next day as I was hesitating outside his private room, screwing up my courage to tap, the Bantam sidled up behind me. “I’m going too,” he said. Before I could dissuade him, he had turned the handle. Sneard was a sallow cadaverous person; he affected side-whiskers and had red hair. He wore clerical attire, the vest of which was very much spotted through his nearsightedness when he ate at table. He was probably the least scholarly master in the school, but he owed his position to his manners. They were unctuous, and had the reputation of going down with the parents. I suppose that was how he caught my father. He composed hymns, which he set to music and compelled us to sing on Sundays. They were mostly of the self-abasement order, in which we spoke of ourselves as worms and besought the Almighty not to tread on us. For years my mental picture of God was that of a gigantic school-master in holy orders, very similar in appearance to Sneard himself. When we entered, he was seated behind his desk writing. He prolonged our suspense by pretending not to see us for a while. Suddenly he cast aside his pen and wheeled round in a storm of furious anger. When he spoke, it sounded like a dog yapping. “You young blackguards, what’s this I hear about you?” He forced us to tell him the stupid details of our offense. He could have had no sense of humor, for while we were speaking he covered his eyes with his hand as though staggered with horror at the enormity of our depravity. Later experience has taught me that what he meant us to believe was that he was engaged in prayer. When in small throaty whispers we had finished our confession, he looked up at us. “Your poor, poor fathers,” he said, “one in India and one my friend! What shall I tell them? How shall I break this news to them?” Then he straightened himself in his chair. “There’s nothing else for it; Cardover, it’s over there. Will you please fetch it?” He pointed to a cane in the corner, which leant against a book-shelf. It was at this crisis that the Bantam made use of his stratagem. “If you please, sir, I’ve been troubled about my soul again.” Then he added loyally, “And Cardover’s been lying awake of nights thinking about hell.” If the truth be told I had been lying awake imagining Sneard being bled to death very slowly, and very torturingly, by a hill-tribe. But Sneard caught at the bait. “I am glad to hear it. Cardover, before I cane you, come here and tell me about your views on hell.” Before we left him, great crocodile tears were streaming from our eyes by reason of knuckles rubbed in vigorously. We were not punished. The last sight I had of Sneard he was gazing with holy joy at a great oil-painting of himself which hung above his desk.