"Please, sir, Bowser has taken my slate, and won't give it to me," answered Cohen, in a whining voice.
"Bowser, what's the meaning of this? What are you doing with Cohen's slate?" demanded the doctor, frowning darkly.
Frank did not look a bit frightened, but still holding on to the slate, which Cohen was making ineffectual efforts to regain, replied, in respectful tones:
"May I hand you the slate first, sir?"
At these words Cohen turned ashy pale, and Dr. Johnston, realising that there must be something going on that required explanation, ordered Frank to bring all the slates up to him.
With radiant face Frank proceeded to obey, giving Bert a triumphant look as he passed by him, while Cohen shrank back into his corner, and bit his nails as though he would devour his finger tips. Taking up Cohen's slate, the doctor scrutinised it carefully. One glance was sufficient. A deep flush spread over his dark face, his eyes lighted up threateningly, and in his sternest tones he called out:
Amid the expectant hush of the school, none but class six knowing what was the matter, Cohen, looking as though he would give his right hand to be able to sink through the floor, walked slowly up into the dreadful presence of the angered master. Holding up the slate before him, Dr. Johnston asked:
"Is this your slate, sir?"
Cohen gave it a cowering glance, and said, faintly: