“Why, sir, surely,” said Jeremy, “you told me that I need not do them this term because . . .”
“No because,” interrupted M. Clemenceau at the top of a rather squeaky voice. “There is no because.”
“But, sir,” began Jeremy; and from all sides of the class there broke out: “Why, certainly, sir, don’t you remember——” and “Cole is quite right, sir; you said——” and “I think you’ve forgotten, sir, that——” and “It really wouldn’t be fair, sir, if——” A babel arose. As the boys very well knew, M. Clemenceau had a horror of too much noise, because Thompson was holding a class in the next room, and on two occasions that very term had sent a boy in to request that if it were possible M. Clemenceau should conduct his work a little more softly. And this had been agony for M. Clemenceau’s proud French spirit. “I will have silence,” he shrieked. “This is no one’s business but mine and the young Cole. Let no one speak until I tell them to do so. Now, Cole, where are the three hundred lines?”
There was a complete and absolute silence.
“Vill you speak or vill you not speak?” M. Clemenceau cried.
“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Jeremy very innocently.
“Of course, I mean you.”
“You said, sir, that no one was to speak until you told them to.”
“Well, I tell you now.”
Jeremy looked very injured. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “If I could explain to you quietly.”