Done it, it had. Mr. Salmon demanded to know why Bathgate and Faraday were crawling around on the floor, and Bathgate, looking sheepish, said something about falling off his chair.
"My chair overbalanced, sir," he said. "I knocked Faraday over."
The class was on tenterhooks. Would Mr. Salmon come up and investigate for himself? Faraday, at any rate, lay there absolutely still.
"Faraday," said the master, grimly, "evidently desires to emulate Doré, the artist, who drew his pictures while lying down on his stomach. Or is he just asleep?"
"I think he's hurt," said the indomitable Patch, getting up again. He meant to pull the fat out of the fire if it were humanly possible. He grabbed the effigy and savagely hauled it into place, keeping between it and the master all the time. He got back to his seat, but barely had he reached it when the dummy boy doubled up at the waist like a jack-knife, and banged its head on the floor. To Patch's horror, the head, which was loosely attached, came off and rolled a full yard down the passage.
Jumping up once more, Patch grabbed the head, and, amid the laughter of his companions, restored it to its position. The effigy of Faraday grinned impudently at the master, its head on one side, as Patch got back to his seat.
"There is too much disorder," said Mr. Salmon petulantly. "Far too much of it. Patch, and you too, Faraday, and Bathgate, take one hundred lines."
Just at that moment came the bell announcing the end of the period, and Mr. Salmon, gathering his gown about him, stalked out indignantly.
"Phew!" breathed Patch. "I don't want to have a strain like that again for a few years. Talk about nerves! You'd want nerves of phosphor-bronze, or something, with an obstreperous dummy like this on your hands."
He landed a kick into the effigy's waistcoat, and it fell on to the floor. The class simply roared.