He remembered how he had first walked across that playground, hand in hand with his father, a little boy of twelve.
He remembered his first troubles with Barker, and how his father had at last delivered him from the annoyances of his old enemy.

He remembered how often he and Russell had sat there, looking at the sea, in pleasant talk, especially the evening when he had got his first prize and head remove in the lower fourth; and how, in the night of Russell's death, he had gazed over that playground from the sick-room window.

He remembered how often he had got cheered there for his feats at cricket and football, and how often he and Upton in old days, and he and Wildney afterwards, had walked there on Sundays, arm in arm.

Then the stroll to Port Island, and Barker's plot against him, and the evening at the Stack passed through his mind; and the dinner at the Jolly Herring, and, above all, Vernon's death.

Oh! how awful it seemed to him now, as he looked through the darkness at the very road along which they had brought Verny's dead body.