I made a great effort and recovered my self-possession.
‘Please, sir,’ I repeated, ‘I want you to box my ears.’
‘Well, you are a funny fellow! What should I box your ears for, pray?’
‘Because I’ve been very wicked,’ I answered; and, putting my hand into my pocket, I extracted the bitten apple, and held it up to him.
‘Ho! ho!’ he said, beginning to guess what I must mean, but hardly the less bewildered for that; ‘is that one of my apples?’
‘Yes, sir. It fell down from a branch that hung over the wall. I took it up, and—and—I took a bite of it, and—and—I’m so sorry!’
Here I burst into a fit of crying which I choked as much as I could. I remember quite well how, as I stood holding out the apple, my arm would shake with the violence of my sobs.
‘I’m not fond of bitten apples,’ he said. ‘You had better eat it up now.’
This brought me to myself. If he had shown me sympathy, I should have gone on crying.
‘I would rather not. Please box my ears.’