“Kima Pirk, please begin.”
Kima stood up and began to rattle off something. She almost never knows the lesson, but when she is called upon to recite, she swallows and mutters and stutters and uses her mouth so queerly that it is almost impossible to understand anything she says.
For once, I was glad to hear her. Mr. Juul always calls on us in regular order, and since he had begun with Kima, who sat at the farthest end of the class from me, I should escape.
Oh, what a relief!—that I should not be called upon to recite.
Kima sputtered and stammered. Meanwhile I made a beautiful chicken out of paper, under my desk.
“What kind of a king was Olaf Kyrre?—Inger Johanne.”
I jumped up.
“He was—he was very bloodthirsty.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, no,—he was very brave—only a little bloodthirsty.”