For answer the boy clasped his fingers about the master’s sleeve. He had grown dumb with terror.
“So be it,” said the old man, regarding him with pity and concealed tenderness.
A little while afterwards the boy rose suddenly of his own motion from the master’s table.
“Where are you going, Achilles?” said the master.
“I—I am g-going, s-sir, to the garden to the boys,” he stammered.
As he walked out through the door his gaunt cheeks were like death.
He crept into the garden with the greatest caution and secrecy. He hardly dared to breathe lest he should be heard, he feared to move lest he should be seen. Crouching against the wall, moving neither foot nor hand, he longed to stop the motions of his heart. They were so loud that he felt they were bound to be noticed.
His fears proved to be well founded. A tall, heavy, puffy boy with vivid red hair came near. He was trying to kick the cap of another boy, who was much smaller than himself, over the wall. By an odd misadventure one of these attempts landed it full in the face of the trembling intruder.
“Hullo, New Boy!” said the boy with red hair.
He gave the cap a final kick, which lifted it among the branches of the only tree the garden contained. He then turned his attention to his important discovery. He moistened his lips with his tongue, and gave an anticipatory leer to the figure that shrank away from him.