“I will not.”
“Pande, sir, Pande.”
Five minutes afterwards Harry staggered back to his seat, pale-faced and sick.
He sat down beside his class-mate, and was soon so far recovered as to be able to whisper—
“How many did I have?”
“Two-and-twenty,” was the reply. “I counted.”
“And that new tawse is a tickler, I can tell you,” said Harry.
He did not climb any trees that day going home. He could not have held on. Nor was he able to eat much supper, but he did not tell the reason why.
But, apart from his fondness for corporal or palmar punishment, Dominie Roberts was a clever teacher, and Harry made excellent progress.
Autumn came round, and stormy wet days, and many a cold drenching our hero got, both coming to and going from school. But he did not mind them. They only seemed to render him hardier and sturdier, and make his cheeks the ruddier.