The boys were staring at the little, white-faced girl at the head master’s desk, though they could not hear what was being said.
“Would you like to come and talk to me privately?” Mr. Burnham said.
And “Oh-h-h!” was Poppet’s only answer; but the gratitude in her eyes was so intense, he guessed a little what the ordeal had been to her.
[83]
]Away down the long room she went again, only this time her hand was being held in a firm, kindly grasp.
“Oh!” she said again, when near the door a great, slouching fellow with a big head moved to help another boy with a blackboard.
“What?” said Mr. Burnham, when they were outside; he had noticed her intense interest.
“Was that Bull-dog Hawkins—the fellow that told?” she said.
He smiled somewhat; Hawkins was not a favourite of his, and the fitting name sounded odd on the little girl’s lips.
“His name is Hawkins,” he said; “and yes, he gave the information; but that has nothing to do with it, my child. Now, tell me what it is you have to say.”
He had taken her into a little room the walls of which were lined with books; he drew up a chair for himself, and one for her, but she preferred standing against his knee.