He was a boy capable of considerable reserve. He did not, like young Winterbaum, press his every thought and idea upon those about him. He could be frank where he was confident, but this sense of difference smote him dumb. Several of his schoolfellows, old Noakley, and Mr. Mainwearing, became uncomfortably aware of an effect of unspoken comment in Peter. He would receive a sudden phrase of abuse with a thoughtful expression, as though he weighed it and compared it with some exterior standard. This irritated a school staff accustomed to use abusive language. Probyn, after Peter had hit Newton, took a fancy to him that did not in the least modify Peter’s instinctive detestation of the red nostrils and the sloppy mouth and the voluminous bellow. Peter became rapidly skilful in avoiding Probyn’s conversation, and this monstrously enhanced his attraction for Probyn. Probyn’s attention varied between deliberate attempts to vex and deliberate attempts to propitiate. He kept alive the promise of a fight with Newton, and frankly declared that Peter could lick Newton any day. Newton was as distressed as a cast mistress.
One evening the cadaverous boy discovered Peter drawing warriors on horseback. He reported this strange gift to Ames. Ames came demanding performances, and Peter obliged.
“He can draw,” said Ames. “George and the Dragon, eh? It’s good.”
Probyn was shouted to, and joined in the admiration.
Peter drew this and that by request.
“Draw a woman,” said Ames, and then, as the nimble pencil obeyed, “No—not an old woman. Draw—you know. Draw a savage woman.”
“Draw a girl bathing—like they are in Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday,” said Probyn. “Just with light things on.”
“Draw a heathen goddess,” said Ames. “With nothing on at all.”
Peter said he couldn’t draw goddesses.
“Go on,” said Ames. “Draw a savage woman.”