“I wanted to get some poplar leaves for my puss-moth caterpillars.” Silence—then, rather lamely,—“They’re in the fourth stage, sir.”
“Are they?” The Head smiled, possibly because he approved of this fervent manifestation of what the head-masters’ conference called “nature study,” possibly at Edwin’s sudden revelation of schoolboy psychology. Decidedly he approved of the puss-moths. He had been reading Fabre aloud to his wife. Fabre, too, was a schoolmaster, poor devil! He did not speak his thoughts: schoolmasters never can. He said,—
“Let me see, Ingleby, you’re in the Lower Fifth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I must speak to Mr. Cleaver. . . .” He didn’t say what he must speak about. “All right—get along with you.” He left them, walking away with his hands joined behind his back supporting an immense flounce of black silk gown. Edwin scrambled over the fence; his hands, as they clutched the top of it, were trembling violently.
“Well, you are a prize liar,” said Widdup, “and the old man believed every word of it.”
“I know,” said Edwin. “That’s the rotten part of it. . . .”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . .” He knew perfectly well what he meant.
“Who won?”