“Go back, Bunce,” cried the master. “Pillett, stand out. Now here, sir, is a lad whom I am sure you will like. Writes a hand like copperplate. Age thirteen, and very intelligent.”
Pillett came forward eagerly, after darting a triumphant look at Coggley and Bunce. He was a wooden-faced boy, who seemed to have hard brains and a soft head, for his forehead looked nubbly, and there were rounded off corners at the sides.
“Let Dr Grayson hear you say—”
“No, no, Hippetts; this is not an examination,” cried the doctor testily. “That is not the sort of boy I want. He must be a bright, intelligent lad, whom I can adopt and take into my house. I shall treat him exactly as if he were my own son, and if he is a good lad, it will be the making of him.”
“Oh! I see, sir,” said Mr Hippetts importantly. “Go back, Pillett. I have the very boy. Gloog!”
Pillett went back, and furtively held up his fist at triumphant Gloog, who came out panting as if he had just been running fast, and as soon as he had made the regulation bow, he, from old force of habit, wiped his nose on his cuff.
“No, no, no, no,” cried the doctor, without giving the lad a second glance, the first at his low, narrow forehead and cunning cast of features being quite enough.
“But this is an admirably behaved boy, sir,” protested Mr Hippetts. “Mr Sibery here can speak very highly of his qualifications.”
“Oh yes, sir,” put in the schoolmaster with a severe smile and a distant bow, for he felt annoyed at not being consulted.
“Yes, yes,” said the doctor; “but not my style of boy.”