The Old Head held an Assembly in which he delivered all kinds of threats—most of them unenforceable—to boys who indulged in snowball fights, or failed to wipe their feet on the mat when entering the School buildings. All the boys ignored him, of course. They came into Latin with wet shirts and wet feet, and left their shoes on the radiators to dry, with the result that for three days the whole of the Middle Corridor smelled of damp boys and their footwear.

Three evenings in early December were reserved for meetings with parents—to discuss form reports, exam results, or any other matters for concern—but I wasn’t expecting Harrington to bring up anything serious. In fact, since our talk in the locker rooms he hadn’t said a word to me, except to answer questions in class, which he did with a cool condescension, as if conferring a favor.

Besides, there were other demands on my time. One boy had failed his Latin exam and needed extra help; another’s parents were divorcing and he was taking it badly; and the girls of Mulberry House were putting on a production of Antigone, in which four of my fifth-form boys were also participating. Result: two of them had already fallen in love with the girl who was playing the lead, a rather attractive redhead apparently destined for greatness, which ill-timed attack of puppy love would probably cost them at least a grade.

And so you see, when Harrington came to me with alarming news, it took me entirely by surprise. First, that he should have noticed the problem before I did myself; second, that a boy of fourteen should have such unusual insight. It made me reassess the boy—and question my own instincts.

It was during Assembly on Friday, the last week in November. The boys had gone to Chapel, but I’d stayed in room 59 to go over some fourth-form papers. At eight forty-five, the sky was still dark, with a sick orange glow that boded no good.

Harrington came in, alone; fresh-pressed and looking like springtime. “I wondered if I could have a word with you, sir.”

I put down my pen. “Of course,” I said. “Anything the matter?”

He seemed to consider the question. “Perhaps.”

“Right,” I said. “Sit down. Take your time.”

I’ll admit my heart had sunk a bit. After the whole mensa-merda debacle and the raft of complaints that had followed it, I was more than half expecting another account of profanity in The Canterbury Tales, or immoral conduct in Geography, even though, since the talk in the locker rooms, Harrington Senior’s complaints had ceased as abruptly as they had begun.