“Harry!” I whispered, too eager to get him away to feel any embarrassment. “Come with me. I’ve got something to tell you.”
He came, looking both pleased and curious, but still with a certain half-defiant swagger.
“Tell away,” he said; “I’m listening;” and he began to whistle.
“Mr. Sant,” I said, “wants you to chuck up the old school and come and be his pupil with me, if you and your mother’s willing.”
He was fairly hipped. He stopped whistling, and rubbed his round nose till it shone; then suddenly halted, in a quiet place, and stared at me.
“Was it you axed him that?” he said.
“No, indeed.”
“Honour bright?”
“Of course. Why should I lie, you old stoopid?”
He tried to whistle again, and broke down. I didn’t know the depths of the little soul, nor what it had endured.