"Kennedy wants you, Wren," said Spencer. "You'd better buck up; he's
in an awful wax."
Next to Walton, the vindictive Spencer objected most to Wren, and he
did not attempt to conceal the pleasure he felt in being the bearer of
this ominous summons.
The group broke up. Wren went disconsolately upstairs to Kennedy's
study; Walton smacked Spencer's head--more as a matter of form than
because he had done anything special to annoy him--and retired to the
senior dayroom; while Spencer, muttering darkly to himself, avoided a
second smack and took cover in the junior room, where he consoled
himself by toasting a piece of india-rubber in the gas till it made
the atmosphere painful to breathe in, and recalling with pleasure the
condition Walton's face had been in for the day or two following his
encounter with Kennedy in the dormitory.
Kennedy was working when Wren knocked at his door.
He had not much time to spare on a bounds-breaking fag; and his manner
was curt.
"I saw you going into Rose's, in the High Street, this afternoon,
Wren," he said, looking up from his Greek prose. "I didn't give you
leave. Come up here after prayers tonight. Shut the door."
Wren went down to consult Walton again. His attitude with regard to a
licking from the head of the house was much like that of the other
fags.
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