"I hope I have not disturbed you," said Mr. Willis, smiling; "you are Gilbert Mickle, are you not?"
"Yes," the boy answered shortly.
"Then I think you and I ought to know each other," Mr. Willis remarked cordially, holding out his hand; "I believe I have met all the other members of your family. My name is John Willis."
"I thought so," Gilbert exclaimed. He could not refuse to grasp the extended hand, though his one idea was to get away as soon as possible. "I hope you are better?" he inquired awkwardly.
"Oh, much better, thank you. Are you in a hurry? Will you not sit down and talk to me for a bit?"
"Well—if you like."
It was scarcely a gracious answer. Gilbert seated himself a few steps away from his companion, and rested his crutches by his side; his self-consciousness made him nervous, so that he clumsily allowed one crutch to slip, and crimsoned with vexation as he stooped to pick it up.
"I can't go far without my props," he said, with the bitter intonation in his voice which it always pained his mother to hear.
"So I understand," Mr. Willis replied in matter-of-fact tones. Being a tactful man and a keen judge of character, he deemed it best not to enlarge upon the other's lameness, or show the sympathy he felt; but calmly changed the conversation by saying, "I have now come from the town, and whilst I was making a few purchases from Mr. Higgs, the stationer, asked him some questions about the Grammar School—I mean, my boy to go there after Easter—and he told me you and his son have been rivals this term."
"Yes. Higgs and I both wanted to win the form-prize."