“If you touch me,” he shouted, “I will fling this at your head.”
Mr. Hathorn hesitated. The shower of books had not affected him, but the heavy missile in Ned's hand was a serious weapon. In another moment he sprang forward and brought his cane down with all his force upon Ned's back.
Ned at once hurled the heavy inkstand at him. The schoolmaster sprang on one side, but it struck him on the shoulder, and he staggered back.
“You have broken my shoulder, you young scoundrel!” he exclaimed.
“I shouldn't care if I had broken your head,” Ned retorted, white with passion; “it would have served you right if I had killed you, you tyrant.”
“One of you go and fetch a constable,” Mr. Hathorn said to the boys.
“Let him send his servant. He will find me at home. Mr. Hathorn, I am not going to run away, you need not think it. Give me in charge if you dare; I don't care what they do to me, but the whole country shall know what a tyrant you are.”
So saying, he collected his books, put his cap on his head, and walked from the schoolroom, the boys cheering him loudly as he went. On reaching home he went at once to his father's study.
“I am sorry to say, sir, that there has been a row in the school, and Hathorn has threatened to send a constable here after me for throwing an inkstand at him.”
“Throwing an inkstand!” Captain Sankey exclaimed. “Is it possible?”