Those were the days which Clive enjoyed most. It was after a bout of casting that his lessons were worse prepared than on other occasions, while drills and "impots" showered upon him.
"Darrell, inattentive again," Old B. would exclaim sadly, as if the matter were a personal grief to him. "Half an hour's drill to-morrow."
Or Harvey, the great Harvey, would rouse his curly, shapely head from his desk in the middle of prep., strange sounds having disturbed him.
"If that isn't young Darrell again," he'd exclaim testily. "Come here, Darrell."
Fearful of the consequences, but unlikely to be robbed of his love of mechanics by any amount of punishment, Clive would leave his seat and come to the front.
"Well?"
"I—er——"
"What's it this time?"
"Only a wheel. I was just filing it so as to be ready for after school."
The culprit would hand forth a file of gigantic size, and a casting of his own making. Prep., Clive had found, was an excellent time for the doing of such little jobs. But there was the difficulty of drowning noise. Harvey had been annoyed on more than one occasion.