“A sad young pickle,” said the master. “Most hopeless case, sir. Constantly being punished.”
“Humph! You young rascal!” said the doctor sternly. “How dare you be a naughty boy!”
The little fellow wrinkled his white forehead, and glanced at the schoolmaster, and then at Mr Hippetts, before looking back at the doctor.
“I d’know,” he said, in a puzzled way.
“You don’t know, sir!”
“No. I’m allus cotching it.”
“Say sir, boy,” cried the master.
“Allus cotching of it, sir, and it don’t do me no good.”
“Really, Dr Grayson—”
“Wait a bit, Mr Hippetts,” said the doctor more graciously. “Let me question the boy.”