Landor, in his cotta edged with lace, the principal boy alto, turned at the door, turned sharply so that the hem of his black cassock swirled. Above the broad starched collar his face scowled. Light from a narrow window high in the stone wall of the choir room, morning light, pure light, shone off his hair. "I'm going to tell," he said. "I'm going to tell."

He shut the door and left Morton standing in his ridiculous position beside the piano, one shoe off, the stockinged foot clutched in his hand. It was his habit to change his shoes before going to the organ loft, where soft soles made manipulating the bass pedals easier.

"But it's not true," he said.

However, he said it to no one. Then he swore, and hopped on one foot to sit on a chair and finish lacing the shoe. He hurried out, robes flying, pushing through the boys who were lining up behind the crucifer in the gray hallway, his face rigid, eyes straight ahead lest they glimpse Landor, whose mouth he could not see but wanted to kiss and lest they glimpse Phillips.

He charged up the narrow steps into the gloom of the organ loft, threw back the rolltop cover over the manuals and snapped the switch so that the pump of the organ began to pulse. It emitted a thin trembling whine that after a moment faded. A cold mechanical wind blew across his neck. He began to play a Bach prelude.

Bach did for him what it always did: his anger subsided sufficiently so that he could wonder. What had come over Phillips? Phillips was a short boy with thick spectacles, a heavy, doughy body, colorless hair, a white skin that would be blotchy with pimples in another year. Phillips was adenoidal, his mouth always slightly ajar, not a good mouth, rather like that of a fish. What had come over Phillips?

Morton relived the scene of a few minutes before, when Landor had let the other boys all go ahead of him out of the choir room. He had turned on Morton fiercely.

"Phillips says you handled him in the cloak room. Got him in there alone last Thursday night before choir practice, before anybody else got there. You handled him and kissed him." Landor made a face. "Kissed him! Phillips. I hate you. You're rotten. And I'm going to pay you back. I'm going to tell Father Livingston."

"No," Morton had said, stunned, half-laughing, reaching out to catch the boy, to steady him down, to reassure him. "It's not true, Bobby. Phillips is lying.

Landor shook his head contemptuously. "You don't think I'd believe him just for saying it, do you? He showed me what you gave him."

"What!"

"The wooden cigarette case with the spring. The one you got in Hong Kong, with the Chinese writing on it. He showed it to me. Just now."

"I never gave Phillips anything."

"He's got it. He said he stayed with you Friday night. And you gave it to him for letting you-you know. You gave him money, too. Five dollars."

"But why, Bobby? Why would I give Phillips or any boy money and— presents? When I have you." He tried to put his arm around Landor,

"Let me go. Phillips is too dumb to make up a story like that, and you know it. He's just a fat baby. He doesn't even know the facts of life. He couldn't have made it up."

"Bobby, you're acting childish."

13