ll his cups were dirty. It was Pearson's
duty to clean the cups, and Pearson was in 'sicker' with influenza.
Martin had been told to do Pearson's work for the next few days, but he
had not realised what Pearson really did and he had forgotten about the
cups. Moreover, after watching the match, he had gone off to the
tuck-shop to eat ham and chocolate: so Leopard shouted for him in vain,
and then, spurning the proffered aid of sycophantic aliens, he
furiously washed his own cups and made his own tea. An angry man does
not lightly reject an excuse for wrath, and Spots thoroughly enjoyed
the nursing of his grievance.

On his way back from the tuck-shop Martin borrowed a copy of Keats from
the school library: then he settled down at his desk in the workroom
and began to look through the Odes to see if there were any words that
he could not pronounce. The meeting of the poetry circle was
formidably near and the old fear of being shown up was vigorously
attacking him.

Suddenly Caruth came up and said: "Spots wants you."

So he put away the book and went up to the study. He saw at once that
Spots was in the blackest of moods.

"Why the blazes didn't you wash the cups?" he said. "I told you to do
Pearson's work."

Martin trembled. "I forgot," he said. "I couldn't think of all the
things Pearson did."

"I should have thought that the washing of cups might have struck you
as a fairly obvious thing to do."

"Yes; I'm sorry."

"The fact of the matter is, you're getting a bit above yourself. Just
because you're clever you think you're everyone. Now you're too good
to wash cups."

"It wasn't that really, Leopard. I forgot."

"Well you damned well mustn't forget. You're too good to keep awake.
That's just as bad. Now get out, you little beast, and come to me
after prayers."

Martin went back to his Keats in misery. He could guess what was in
store for him, but he could not be certain, because Spots might have
recovered from his wrath by the appointed time and then he might treat
the matter as a joke. But if Spots didn't recover ... well, then he
would be swiped. Martin had never been caned at his private school and
this would be his first experience; he wondered how much it would hurt.
Then fear came surging over him, not the dread of anything definite,
but the hideous fear of the unknown. He was not so much afraid that he
would be hurt as that he would show that he had been hurt: that was the
deadly,