“I declare I can’t learn my lesson—’tis too bad!” cried Hugh.
“’Tis a shame!” said Tom Holt, sighing for breath after his struggle not to laugh. “We shall never be ready.”
Hugh made gestures of indignation at the boys, which only caused worse faces to be made, and the mask to nod.
“We wont look at them,” proposed Holt. “Let us cover our eyes, and not look up at all.”
Hugh put his hands before his eyes; but still his mind’s eye saw the grinning mask, and his lesson did not get on. Besides, a piece of wet sponge lighted on the very page he was learning from. He looked up fiercely, to see who had thrown it. It was no other than Tooke, who belonged to that class:—it was Tooke, to judge by his giggle, and his pretending to hide his face, as if ashamed. Hugh tossed back the sponge, so as to hit Tooke on the nose. Then Tooke was angry, and threw it again, and the sponge passed backwards and forwards several times: for Hugh was by this time very angry,—boiling with indignation at the hardship of not being able to learn his lesson, when he really would if he could. While the sponge was still passing to and fro, Mr Carnaby’s voice was heard from the far end of the room, desiring Warner, Page, Davison, and Tooke to be quiet, and let the boys alone till Mr Tooke came in, when Mr Tooke would take his own measures.
Hugh, wondering how Mr Carnaby knew, at that distance, what was going on, found that Holt was no longer by his side. In a moment, Holt returned to his seat, flushed and out of breath. A very slight hiss was heard from every form near, as he came down the room.
“O! Holt! You have been telling tales!” cried Hugh.
“Telling tales!” exclaimed Holt, in consternation, for Holt knew nothing of school ways. “I never thought of that. They asked me to tell Mr Carnaby that we could not learn our lessons.”
“They! Who? I am sure I never asked you.”
“No; you did not: but Harvey and Prince did,—and Gillingham. They said Mr Carnaby would soon make those fellows quiet; and they told me to go.”