Scrafton was telling his story. Mrs. Bickersteth had forbidden the low paper, Tommy Tiddler, to be brought into the school, and Master Woodman not only had a copy in his pocket, but stubbornly refused to say how he had come by it. A little persuasion was being used, when Mr. Ringrose rushed in, said Scrafton, and committed a murderous assault upon him with that chair.
"A little persuasion!" jeered Harry, breaking out again. "A little torture, you brute! Now I will tell you where he came by that paper. I lent it him."
"You—a paid master in my school—lend one of my boys that vulgar, vicious, abominable paper, after I have forbidden it in the school?"
"Yes—I did wrong. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bickersteth, for that and for the way I spoke just now—to you—not to him," Harry took care to add, with a contemptuous jerk of the head towards Scrafton. "As for this unlucky rag," picking it up, "it may or may not be vulgar, but I deny that it is either vicious or abominable. I shouldn't write for it if it were."
"You write for it?"
"Have done ever since I was here."
"Then," cried Mrs. Bickersteth, "even if you had not behaved as you have behaved this morning—even if you had not spoken as you have spoken—in my presence—in the presence of the boys—you should leave my school this day. You are not fit for your position."
"And never was," roared Scrafton, taking another huge pinch and snapping the snuff from his fingers; "and perhaps, ma'am, you'll listen to. Jeremiah Scrafton another time. What did I tell you the first time I saw him. A common swindler's whelp—like father, like son."
So Scrafton took his chance, but now it was Harry's. He walked up to the other and stared him steadily in the face. It was the look Harry had given him five days out of the seven for many a week, but never had it been quite so steady or so cool.
"I won't strike you, Scrafton," said he; "no, thank you! But we're not done with each other yet. You've not heard the last of me—or of my father."