I rose in my place, and saw the tall, stout, clerical-looking gentleman I had seen when I reached Meade Place on the previous night, enter by the middle door, and look gravely and smilingly round.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Good morning, Mr Rebble;” and then he marched solemnly to the pulpit on the daïs, took his place, waved his hand, there was a repetition of the rustling and shuffling as the boys reseated themselves, and then the humming murmur of the school recommenced.
“I say, how old are you?” whispered my companion.
“Sixteen—nearly,” I replied.
“Well, that is rum. So am I. So’s lots of fellows here. Where did you go to school before?”
“Nowhere. Had a private tutor at home.”
“Well, you must be a muff.”
“Why?”
“To give up a private tutor all to yourself to come to school here.”
“Obliged to. Uncle said I should grow into a—”