The boy bit his lip and hesitated, evidently half inclined to refuse to answer, but there was something in Mr. Horton’s face that puzzled and rather awed him, and after a moment’s silence he said sulkily:—
“The janitor did not fill my inkstand, and I had to go down to that beastly old cellar and fill it myself, and I got the ink on my hand. I never went to a school before where I had to do servant’s work,” he added with his haughtiest air.
“Did anyone see you filling your inkstand?” asked the teacher.
“The janitor was muddling around there,” answered the boy. “I told him it was his business to do it for me, and he had the impudence to tell me that it was as much my business as his.”
Mr. Horton half smiled, understanding that St. John’s overbearing manner would not be likely to incline the somewhat crusty old janitor to save him any trouble; but remembering the serious question at issue, his face grew grave again.
“Have you been in the dressing-room to-day?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said the boy.
“Very well; you may go,” and, as St. John went down the stairs, Mr. Horton returned to the school-room, where he found the three boys sitting in a sort of embarrassed silence.
“Dixon,” he said at once, “I see you have stained your hand. How did you do it?”
Dixon glanced at his fingers, and the color suddenly flamed in his freckled cheeks.