Chapter Eight.
The Burnt Manuscript.
All
All my poor scrapings, from a dozen years
Of dust and desk-work.
Sea Dreams.
It may be supposed that during chapel the next morning, and when he went into early school, Walter was in an agony of almost unendurable suspense; and this suspense was doomed to be prolonged for some time, until at last he could hardly sit still. Mr Paton did not at once notice that his desk was broken. He laid down his books, and went on as usual with the morning lesson.
At length Tracy was put on. He stood up in his usual self-satisfied way, looking admiringly at his boots, and running his delicate white hand through his scented hair. Mr Paton watched him with a somewhat contemptuous expression, as though he were thinking what a pity it was that any boy should be such a little puppy. Henderson, with his usual quick discrimination, had nicknamed Tracy the “Lisping Hawthornbud.”
“Your fifth failure this week, Tracy; you must do the usual punishment,” said Mr Paton, taking up his key to unlock the desk.
“Now for it,” thought all the form, looking on with great anxiety.
The key caught hopelessly in the broken lock. Mr Paton’s attention was aroused; he pushed the lid off the desk, and saw at once that it had been broken open.