As he sat in his study pretending to read Tacitus the prospect of failure and misery became cruelly imminent. He couldn't make out why the workroom people would shut up for Rayner. Rayner wasn't noted for his severity and didn't make half as much use of the Iron Heel as some of his predecessors in Berney's or contemporaries in other houses. Martin was faced with the eternal paradox of government, that those who can govern do not need to punish, while those who punish do not thereby govern. He had always suspected the common talk about personalities and strong men: but now he began to wonder whether there wasn't something in it after all. Anyhow it seemed that by one action of hesitation he had lost his chance: his prestige was going, and if he once gained a reputation for 'raggability' there would be no more peace. The memory of Barmy Walters and the sordid tumult of his classroom came to him with a new piquancy. "My God!" he said, "it sha'n't be that." He would have to go for Granny. But how did one go for such a creature? Granny always kept to the letter of the law and protested that he had meant nothing: was one simply to disregard his assertions, to call him a liar? How did Rayner manage? And there were the ideals. Would this method be consonant with the humanism of the new prefecture? It was all immensely difficult. Later in the evening Rayner came to his study: he was very nice about it. "I say, old man," he said kindly, "that wasn't a good beginning." "It certainly wasn't," admitted Martin. "Granny, I suppose?" asked the other. "Yes, mainly." "Well there's only one thing for Master Gransby-Williams. Damp the little beast." "It's not so easy. He's always on the safe side of the fence. If he swears that he didn't mean what you think he meant, you can't very well do anything." Rayner smiled. "Can't you?" he said. "Well, can you?" "You jolly well must. Otherwise there'll be no end to it." "All right, I'll try. But it seems rather rotten." "Doesn't it strike you as rotten to be ragged by a tick like Granny?" Martin had to admit that it was. Three nights later Martin interviewed Granny after prayers. There had been a rag in the prep. A mouse had escaped from Granny's desk and had been the target of many marksmen. The air had been positively black with hurtling dictionaries. The mouse of course escaped and the missiles struck human flesh, compelling recrimination and redress. "The mouse came out of your desk," said Martin. "Please, I didn't put it there," whined Granny. "I don't care. You must have known it was there when you got your books out." "It may have been asleep," suggested Granny with sudden brilliance. "Rot!" "Well, I read in a book that mice sleep fourteen hours out of twenty-four. Anyhow I didn't notice it. It's got to put in its fourteen hours some time." "The fact remains," said Martin, "that you're responsible for the contents of your desk."