But the first Sunday was a bad day.  In a boys’ school bad weather is apt to be accompanied by bad behavior; on this Sunday it poured.  The boys, having put on their best clothes, were obliged, when they went out to chapel, to wear rubbers and to carry umbrellas—­an imposition against which they rebelled.  After chapel, there was an hour before dinner, and in that hour most of the Sixth Formers sought their rooms—­or sought one another’s rooms; it seemed to Irving, who was trying to read and who had a headache, that there was a needless amount of rushing up and down the corridors and of slamming of doors.  By and by the tumult became uproarious, shouts of laughter and the sound of heavy bodies being flung against walls reached his ears; he emerged then and saw the confusion at the end of the corridor.  Allison was suspended two or three feet above the floor, by a rope knotted under his arms; it was the rope that was used for raising trunks up to the loft above.  In lowering it from the loft some one had trespassed on forbidden ground.  Westby, Collingwood, Dennison, Scarborough, and half a dozen others were gathered, enjoying Allison’s ludicrous struggles.  His plight was not painful, only absurd; and Irving himself could not at first keep back a smile.  But he came forward and said,—­

“Oh, look here, fellows, whoever is responsible for this will have to climb up and release Allison.”

Westby turned with his engaging smile.

“Yes, but, Mr. Upton, who do you suppose is responsible?  I don’t see how we can fix the responsibility, do you?”

“I will undertake to fix it,” said Irving.  “Westby, suppose you climb that ladder and let Allison down.”

“I don’t think you’re approaching this matter in quite a judicial spirit, Mr. Upton,” said Westby.  “Of course no man wants to be arbitrary; he wants to be just.  It really seems to me, Mr. Upton, that no action should be taken until the matter has been more thoroughly sifted.”

The other boys, with the exception of Allison, were chuckling at this glib persuasiveness.  Westby stood there, in a calmly respectful, even deferential attitude, as if animated only by a desire to serve the truth.

“We will have no argument about it, Westby,” said Irving.  “Please climb the ladder at once and release Allison.”

“I beg of you, Mr. Upton,” said Westby in a tone of distress, “don’t, please don’t, confuse argument with impartial inquiry; nothing is more distasteful to me than argument.  I merely ask for investigation; I court it in your own interest as well as mine.”

Irving grew rigid.  His head was throbbing painfully; the continued snickering all round him and Westby’s increasing confidence and fluency grated on his nerves.  He drew out his watch.

“I will give you one minute in which to climb that ladder,” he said.

“Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,” pleaded Westby.  “Even though you have the great weight of authority—­and years”—­Westby choked a laugh—­“behind you, don’t do an unjust and arbitrary thing.  Allison himself wouldn’t have you—­would you, Allison?”