“Please, Mrs Potts, Feelier’s here. Oh—oh! Please, teacher, Feelier—oh my! oh!”
Ann Straggalls was howling loudly, for, just as she finished her announcement of Feelier’s whereabouts, that young lady threw out one youthful leg, and delivered a sharp kick on Ann Straggalls’ shin, the kick being the sharper from the fact that the class of boot worn by the Potts family was that known as “stout” and furnished with nails.
“What is the matter here?” exclaimed Hazel, hurrying to the spot.
“Oh, it’s that gal of mine,” said Mrs Potts, also hurrying up from another direction. “You just come here, miss.”
“Please, teacher, Ann Straggalls’s been telling tales.”
“Please, teacher, she ki-ki-kicked me.”
“You come here, miss,” cried Mrs Potts, who had not the slightest veneration in her nature; and she made a grab at her daughter, who avoided it by a backward bound over the form upon which she had been seated, and keeping several girls between her young person and her irate mamma.
“Mrs Potts, I presume?” said Hazel.
“Yes, my name’s Potts, and I’m not ashamed of it neither,” said the woman. “I want my gal.”
“Will you have the goodness to come to the door and speak to me?” said Hazel. “I cannot have the discipline of the school interrupted like this, Mrs Potts.”