“The headmaster will never sanction it when it’s put to him plainly.”
“But why should I put it?” said Rickie, twisting the ribbons of his gown round his fingers.
“Because you’re the boy’s form-master.”
“Is that a reason?”
“Of course it is.”
“I only wondered whether—” He did not like to say that he wondered whether he need do it his first morning.
“By some means or other you must find out—of course you know already, but you must find out from the boy. I know—I have it! Where’s his health certificate?”
“He had forgotten it.”
“Just like them. Well, when he brings it, it will be signed by Mrs. Orr, and you must look at it and say, ‘Orr—Orr—Mrs. Orr?’ or something to that effect, and then the whole thing will come naturally out.”
The bell rang, and they went in for the hour of school that concluded the morning. Varden brought his health certificate—a pompous document asserting that he had not suffered from roseola or kindred ailments in the holidays—and for a long time Rickie sat with it before him, spread open upon his desk. He did not quite like the job. It suggested intrigue, and he had come to Sawston not to intrigue but to labour. Doubtless Herbert was right, and Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Orr were wrong. But why could they not have it out among themselves? Then he thought, “I am a coward, and that’s why I’m raising these objections,” called the boy up to him, and it did all come out naturally, more or less. Hitherto Varden had lived with his mother; but she had left Sawston at Christmas, and now he would live with Mrs. Orr. “Mr. Jackson, sir, said it would be all right.”