“We’ll say, ‘What sized gloves do you take?’”
“But he will not know anything about the gloves,” I said, interrupting a laugh. “We shan’t have gloves on then.”
“No more we shall. What a pity! That spoils my joke. Never mind. Let’s dress, and go and look at the gardens—perhaps there may be some good butterflies out in the sunshine; and as soon as cook’s down, I’ll beg some hot water to bathe my nose.”
But Mercer did not put in a petition for the hot water. “It’s no good,” he said, when we were down by the gardens, soon after we were dressed. “It’s like physic; we’ve got to take it, so we may as well face it all out and get it over.”
Very good philosophy, of course, but I did not feel hopeful about what was to come.
It all began at breakfast, where we were no sooner seated, than Mr Rebble came by with the new assistant master.
“Bless me! Good gracious! Look, Mr Hasnip. Did you ever see such a nose? No, no, Mercer: sit up, sir.”
Poor Mercer had ducked down to hide his bulbous organ, but he had to sit up while Mr Hasnip brought his smoke-tinted spectacles to bear upon it.
“Terrible!” he said. “The boy must have been fighting.”
“Yes; and here’s the other culprit,” cried Mr Rebble. “Look at this boy’s eye and mouth. Have you two boys been fighting?”