“Let me see. Ah! Coggley, stand out.”
Coggley, a very thin boy of thirteen, a little more whitewashy than the rest, stood out, and made a bow as if he were wiping his nose with his right hand, and then curving it out at the doctor.
He was a nice, sad-looking boy, with railways across his forehead, and a pinched-in nose; but he was very thin, and showed his shirt between the top of his trousers and the bottom of his waistcoat, instead of upon his chest, while it was from growth, not vanity, that he showed so much ankle and wrist.
“Very good boy, sir. Had more marks than any one of his age last year.”
“Won’t do,” said the doctor shortly.
“Too thin,” said Mr Hippetts to himself. “Bunce!” he shouted.
Bunce stood out, or rather waddled forth, a stoutly-made boy with short legs,—a boy who, if ever he had a chance, would grow fat and round, with eyes like two currants, and a face like a bun.
Bunce made a bow like a scoop upside down.
“Another excellent boy, sir,” said Mr Hippetts. “I haven’t a fault to find with him. He is now twelve years old, and he—”
“Won’t do,” said the doctor crossly.