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eyes through the darkness of his present to the innocence of his past, from the man he had become to the Pop he had been, was searchingly obviously, and the effect was heightened by the unclean drops from the trees which fell upon his face, sometimes to wander as they listed, sometimes to be wiped away by his hook. While I was wondering whether I ought to cover myself a policeman approached on the college side, and I saw his hook rise less in defence than for attack. I almost cried out, not for the sake of the policeman but because in my mind's eye I saw a newspaper heading damaging to England, "Murderous affair at Eton; arrest of an O.E." It shows how little even I, who also have "quaffed an over-dose of Parnassus," knows the stuff that our Eton "something" turns out. The policeman flashed his lantern, and this strange colloquy took place-
"Are you a Pop, sir," the policeman asked huskily, for he knew that every stone in the wall was listening. The unhappy man not only lowered his hook, but shocking to relate hid it behind his back.
After an agonising struggle, "No," he said. That is what he said. Once a Pop always a Pop, but for the honour of the school he denied his proud connection with it.
"Then you have no right to sit on that wall," the policeman said; "get off." All the stones in the wall said "Get off." Stingy Hook had merely to slue his right arm round to tear this fellow, but for the honour of the school he humbly got off the wall, his wall.
