“Once again,” he asked, “where is my imposition-book?”
“Burnt, sir; burnt, sir,” said one or two voices, hardly above a whisper.
“And my manuscript?” he asked, in a louder voice, and in still greater agitation. “Surely, surely, you cannot have been so thoughtless, so incredibly unjust as to—”
Walter stood up in his place, with his head bent, and his face covered with an ashy whiteness. “I burnt it, sir,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice, and trembling with fear.
“Come here,” said Mr Paton impetuously; “I can’t hear what you say. Now, then,” he continued, as Walter crept up beside his desk.
“I burnt it, sir,” he said, in a whisper.
“You—burnt—it!” said Mr Paton, starting up in uncontrollable emotion, which changed into a burst of anger as he gave Walter a box on the ear which sounded all over the room, and made the boy stagger back to his place. But the flash of rage was gone in an instant; and the next moment Mr Paton, afraid of trusting himself any longer, left his desk and hurried out, anxious to recover in solitude the calmness of mind and action which had been so terribly disturbed.
Mr Percival, who taught his form in another part of the room, seeing Mr Paton box Walter so violently on the ear, and knowing that this was the very reverse of his usual method, since he had never before touched a boy in anger, walked up to see what was the matter, just as Mr Paton, with great hurried strides, had reached the door.
“What is the matter with Mr Paton?” he asked.
There was a general murmur through the form, out of which Mr Percival caught something about Mr Paton’s papers having been burnt.