“Yes, sir.”
“I said, ‘Aren’t you glad to go?’”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course. There, be off. You’ll never learn anything. You are the stupidest boy I ever taught.”
My cheeks burned, and as I turned to go, there was fat Dicksee grinning at me in so provoking a way, that if we had been alone, I should in my vexation have tried one of Lomax’s blows upon his round, smooth face. But as it was, I went back to my place, where Mercer was seated, with his hands clasped and thrust down between his knees, his back up, and his head down over his book, apparently grinding up his Euclid, upon which he kept his eyes fixed.
“Oh ho!” he whispered; “here you are. Without exception, sir, the stupidest boy I ever taught.”
“I’ll punch your head by and by, Tom, if you’re not quiet,” I said.
“Who made the surd absurd?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. Oh, you lucky beggar! Who are you, I should like to know, to be having your riding lessons?”