"No, indeed!" Mrs. Harcourt said, "I shall send you, hereafter, to private school, where your talents will be appreciated."
There was another pupil who was far more uncomfortable at school than
Gwen had ever been, and that was Gyp.
Placed in a class with children of six or seven, the awkward boy felt ill at ease, and out of place. Yet, while they were years younger than he, they had already spent more hours in the class room than he ever had, and pages that they read with ease, he struggled over. He was a true gypsy, and he loved his freedom, and the fresh air.
Now, as he sat at his desk, book in hand, he thought of his long tramps over field and meadow, through forest and valley, and in his heart he hated school, and the people who forced him to attend.
"What's the use?" he muttered, under his breath.
"I can catch woodchucks, and birds and squirrels," he said, softly, "and once I caught a fox, but what kin I do here? Nothing but hold a ol' book!" A sharp command to "stop muttering, and sit still," served to increase his wrath.
He knew that it was not the teacher who was responsible for his presence at school, but he thought that she wished him to be there, because she insisted that he sit still, and she would not let him leave the room.
"It was the p'liceman what brung me here, but I'll bet 'twas her axed him to," he whispered, thus showing how angry were his thoughts, and how greatly he needed the training that the teacher stood ready to give.
His mother had not dared to keep him at home, although she needed his help.
Gyp could not understand why she had agreed to let him go to a place where he could neither earn nor steal food for the family. He felt that she had not stood by him.