I sauntered over to Bramhall House and climbed the stairs to the house-master's study. Hearing Fillet grunt at my knock, I walked in to execution.
"Oh, let's see, Ray, you were cl-climbing over, weren't you?"
"I believe so, sir."
"Oh, indeed. Then you shall write five hundred lines of Cicero. You'll play no games till they're done."
Five hundred Latin lines! God! I had nerved myself for physical punishment, but for nothing so dreadful as this. This meant long days of confinement with hard, hard labour. A great mass of tears rose from somewhere and came dangerously near the surface. But I kept them down and tried to show, though there was a catch in my voice, that I was still unbroken.
"Yes, sir. Anything further?"
"Yes indeed." Carpet Slippers sucked in his breath. "A further hundred lines. P-p-perhaps that'll teach you that rebellion is expensive."
I swallowed the tears. "No, sir. That won't teach me."
"So? Well, let's say yet another hundred."
Mentally stunned and bleeding, but ready to do battle with the Day of Judgment itself, I retorted: