The fate of poor Robin had been a matter of disagreement between them ever since Jack had come to man’s estate, but the issue did not rest with Jack.  No power on earth could move Dick in that direction.  Robin was his own peculiar property, and in this respect he permitted interference from none.

He left Jack now, and turned back into the schoolroom with deep lines between his brows, but implacable determination in his every movement, a determination that was directed against the poor cowering form that crouched still in the same position waiting for him.

Robin looked up at his coming, drawing himself together with a nervous contraction of the muscles like the mute shrinking of an abject dog.

Dick stopped in front of him.  “So you’re not going to take a caning!” he said.

There was no longer any rebellion in Robin’s attitude.  He dropped his eyes swiftly from his brother’s face, saying no word.  In the silence that followed, his hands began to work, straining ceaselessly against each other.

Dick waited for a few seconds.  “Going on strike, are you?” he asked then, as Robin did not speak.

Robin shook his head dumbly.

“What does that mean?” Dick said.

Robin was silent.  He was nearly dislocating his fingerjoints in his agitation.

Richard bent suddenly and laid a quieting hand upon him.  “Robin, do you know you’ve got me into bad trouble?”

Robin gave a violent jerk, and in a moment stumbled to his feet.  He did not look at his brother, but turned aside in his blundering pathetic fashion, and went to the littered writing-desk.

Dick’s wand of office still lay among the scattered exercise-books.  He pulled it out with a clumsy eagerness, tossing papers and books on the floor in his haste.  He turned and went back to Dick, thrusting the cane towards him.

“There, Dicky!” he said, and stood breathing heavily and trembling.

Dick reached out and took the cane.  The lines of his face were oddly softened.  He stood for a moment looking at the boy, then very sharply he moved, bent, and snapped the thing across his knee.

“Oh, dash it, Robin!” he said.  “You’re getting too much for me.”

He tossed the fragments from him, and went to pick up the books that Robin had scattered on the floor.

Robin came and grovelled by his side, helping him.  “You aren’t angry, are you, Dicky?” he murmured anxiously.

“I ought to be,” Dick said, as he sat down and began to straighten out the muddle in front of him.

Robin knelt up by his side.  “Please don’t be, Dicky!” he said very earnestly.  “I won’t ever do it again.  I swear I won’t.”

Dick smiled somewhat wryly.  “No.  You’ll probably think of some other devilry even worse.”  He put his arm round the humped shoulders with the words.  “You’ll forget—­you always do—­that it’s I who have to pay.”

Robin pressed against him, still dog-like in his contrition.  “Will it cost much?” he asked.