I had barely read this, when Mercer’s hand rapidly obliterated the words, and only just in time, for Mr Rebble left his desk and came slowly by us, glancing over our shoulders as he passed, but Mercer was safe, for he had rapidly formed a right-angled triangle on his slate, and was carefully finishing a capital A, as the usher passed on up to the Doctor’s end.
Those mornings glided away, and so slowly that it seemed as if the mid-day bell would never ring, but its sonorous tones rang through the place at last, and, hanging back, so as not to be called upon to form part of those who would have to go and field for Burr major and another of the bigger lads, Mercer and I waited our time, one day when I had been there about a fortnight, and then slipped off to the stable-yard, and then up into one of the lofts, which the boys were allowed to use as a kind of workshop.
“What do you want to come here for?” I said, as we ascended the rough ladder, and stood in the dimly lighted place.
“I’ll show you directly,” he said. “Don’t you know what I’ve got up here?”
“No.”
“My museum.”
I looked around, but nothing was visible but some willow chips, and a half-formed cricket bat which Dicksee was making, by the help of a spokeshave he had borrowed at the wheelwright’s, and which promised to be as clumsy a stump defender as ever was held in two hands.
“Well,” I said, “where is it?”
“Here,” said Mercer triumphantly, as he led the way to where an old corn-bin stood beneath one of the windows, the lid securely held down by a padlock whose key my companion brought out of his pocket.
“Never mind the old Latin and Euclid. I’ll let you come and help me here sometimes, and if old Burr major or Dicksee interferes, you’ll have to help me, for I wouldn’t have my things spoiled for ever so much.”