A dozen years before, aged 12, I had once been accused
of stealing by the headmaster of the private school I
adorned in Sevenoaks. I was innocent, but the evidence
was both ludicrous and damning, so damning, indeed,
that, strangely, I felt guilty and accepted the punishment.
A terrifying experience, it haunted me for years, and the
sight of a policeman, or the words "criminal judge," sent
shivers down my spine long afterwards. When a little
older, I came to suspect that it was worked up against
me by the master to curry favour with an influential
parent; but at the actual time I had visions even of
prison--for something I had not done. All about a
poem, too!
At evening "prep" a "bit of poetry," as we called it, had to be learnt by heart; my own poetry book was lost; I borrowed young Gildea's. The last thing in the world I wanted to own was that poetry book of young Gildea, the last thing I wanted to do was to learn that poem by heart. I spent the hour, therefore, inscribing my name with elaborate flourishes on the title page. Twice I wrote it, with capitals, of which I was very proud; I thought it ornate and beautiful; and when the hour was over I tossed the book into my locker and forgot all about it. Next morning I was summoned into the headmaster's presence. He wore red whiskers about an otherwise clean-shaven face: a face of natural sternness, with a big nose, a mouth of iron, and steely blue eyes. He was a clergyman of evangelical persuasion.
I had no idea why I had been summoned, but his glance made me at once feel uneasy.
"Blackwood minor," he said in a solemn and portentous voice, "did you do--this?" He held out Gildea's poetry book towards me with the cover open. His finger pointed to my name in pencil, flourishes and all.
I was completely puzzled as to what was coming, but I admitted the signature of course.
"Is the book yours?" he asked. I said it was not. "Gildea has reported the loss of his own copy," the voice
of doom went on. "It has been found--in your locker--
