"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the class, both at the wild leaps of Patch and the astounded horror of Mr. Salmon.
"Boy, boy!" cried the latter, "have you gone mad? Stop this at once—stop it, I say! Really I—!"
"Yow! It's sticking into me—quick! My foot—it's sharp!"
"His foot's sharp?" queried Mr. Salmon. "Patch—calm yourself, my poor fellow," he went on, imagining that, if Patch had really gone off his head, it would be safer to keep him calm.
"You are quite all right—you really are. Just keep calm, and the effects will—"
"Ha, ha, ha!" The class was convulsed, and rocked with merriment as Septimus Patch was seen to sit down on the floor and painfully extract a drawing-tack from his stockinged foot. The tack had been lying harmlessly on the dais, and Patch had planted his foot fairly upon it. Mr. Salmon adjusted his spectacles, and took in the amazing sight. The vivid colours of Patch's hose met his eye, and he gasped.
"Boy! What do you mean by this? Where are your boots?"
"Ah, where?" said Patch dreamily.
Mr. Salmon coloured deeply. "You are insolent—you will be punished," he affirmed. "Explain at once. Where have you put your boots?"
Squinting over the tops of his goggles, Patch descried his boots in place underneath his desk, standing demurely side by side as if nothing had ever been amiss with them.