"Quite right, my son," replied Uncle Bill. "Last term Kifford told his form that a phylactery was a kind of musical instrument. Well, cut along. Be gentle with them."
It was a very hot afternoon in June. Hanbury found four discontented young persons awaiting him. He was wont to be lenient over the Scripture lesson, and a misplaced confidence in this fact had led the quartette to their downfall.
"Now, let us get this business finished," he said briskly. "Are you all ready to be questioned?"
The quartette expressed their readiness to endure the most searching cross-examination.
"Very well, then. Sit down quickly and write out, in your own words, an account of the events in chapter thirteen."
Four pens began to scratch, three vigorously, the last more diffidently. At the end of twenty minutes Mr. Hanbury called a halt.
"Show it up," he said.
Four inky manuscripts were laid before him.
"Let me see," he continued. "Manoah—angel—sacrifice—Nazarite—yes." He glanced swiftly through the papers. "You can go, you three; but you, my young friend,"—he laid a heavy hand on Pip's unkempt head,—"will stay and talk to me."
There was a hasty scuttling of feet, the banging of a door, and Pip was left alone with his master.