“Whatever’s the matter?” said Cook.
Michael did not stop to answer, but ran upstairs, until breathless he reached the schoolroom.
“Please, Miss Carthew, may we have Stella’s mail-cart? Rodber wants it—for trains. Do let me. Rodber’s the boy I told you about who’s at school. Oh, do let us have the cart. Rodber’s got three, but he wants ours. May I, Miss Carthew?”
She nodded.
Michael rushed downstairs in a helter-skelter of joy and presently, with Cook’s assistance in getting it up the steps, Michael stood proudly by the mail-cart which was of the dogcart pattern, very light and swift when harnessed to a good runner. Rodber examined it critically.
“Yes, that’s a fairly decent one,” he decided.
Michael was greatly relieved by his approval.
“Look here,” said Rodber, “I don’t mind telling you, as you’ll be a new kid, one or two tips about school. Look here, don’t tell anybody your Christian name and don’t be cocky.”
“Oh, no, I won’t,” Michael earnestly promised.
“And don’t, for goodness’ sake, look like that when chaps speak to you, or you’ll get your head smacked.”