“I caned him while he kept kicking me,” said Ursula, getting angry because she was half excusing herself, Mr. Harby standing there with the twinkle at the side of his eyes, enjoying the dilemma of the two women.
“I’m sure I’m sorry if he behaved badly,” said the woman. “But I can’t think he deserved beating as he has been. I can’t send him to school, and really can’t afford to pay the doctor.—Is it allowed for the teachers to beat the children like that, Mr. Harby?”
The headmaster refused to answer. Ursula loathed herself, and loathed Mr. Harby with his twinkling cunning and malice on the occasion. The other miserable woman watched her chance.
“It is an expense to me, and I have a great struggle to keep my boy decent.”
Ursula still would not answer. She looked out at the asphalt yard, where a dirty rag of paper was blowing.
“And it isn’t allowed to beat a child like that, I am sure, especially when he is delicate.”
Ursula stared with a set face on the yard, as if she did not hear. She loathed all this, and had ceased to feel or to exist.
“Though I know he is troublesome sometimes—but I think it was too much. His body is covered with marks.”
Mr. Harby stood sturdy and unmoved, waiting now to have done, with the twinkling, tiny wrinkles of an ironical smile at the corners of his eyes. He felt himself master of the situation.
“And he was violently sick. I couldn’t possibly send him to school to-day. He couldn’t keep his head up.”