“He’ll kill you.”
Nobody got the cane. “Probyn,” cried Mr. Mainwearing, “give me my cane.”
Probyn hesitated, and then said to young Newton, “You get it.” Young Newton had been standing up, half offering himself for this service. He handed the cane to Mr. Mainwearing.
“You touch me!” threatened Peter, “you touch me. He’ll kill you,” and taking advantage of the moment when Mr. Mainwearing’s hand was extended for the cane he scored a sound kick on the master’s knee. Then by an inspired wriggle he sought to involve himself with Mr. Mainwearing’s gown in such a manner as to protect his more vulnerable area.
But now Mr. Mainwearing was in a position to score. He stuck his cane between his teeth in an impressive and terrible manner, and then got his gown loose and altered his grip on his small victim. Now for it! The school hung breathless. Cut. Peter became as lively as an eel. Cut.
There were tears in his voice, but his voice was full and clear.
“He’ll kill you. He’ll come here and kill you. I’ll burn down the school.”
“You will, will you?”
Cut. A kick. Cut. Silent wriggles.
“Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten,” counted Mr. Mainwearing and stopped, and let go his hold with a shove. “Now go to your place,” he said. He was secretly grateful to Peter that he went. Peter had a way at times of looking a very small boy, and he did so now. He was tearful, red and amazingly dishevelled, but still not broken down to technical blubbing. His face was streaked with emotion; it was only too manifest that the routines of High Cross had reduced his private ablutions to a minimum. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was still pursued. He could still sob, “My uncle.”