"I've a muzzy feeling in my head sometimes, sir, a sort of ache, not bad, you know."
The Myjor looked very hard at Ger as he spoke—evidently the little boy's voice and accent were in some way unexpected.
He sat down and drew him forward close to his knees. The round mirror on his forehead flashed into Ger's eyes and he winced.
"Headache, eh?" said the Myjor cheerfully. "You don't look as though you ought to get headaches. Can you read?"
"No, sir, that's just what I can't do, and there's awful rows about it. I can't seem to read, I don't want to much, but I do try . . . I do really, but it's so muddly."
"How long have you been learning?"
"Years and years," said Ger mournfully. "They say Kitten 'll read before me, and she's only four."
"Um," said the Myjor, "that will never do. We can't have Kitten stealing a march on us that way. This must be seen into. By the way, what's your name?"
"Gervais Folaire Ffolliot," Ger answered solemnly, as though he were saying his catechism.
"Ffolliot . . . Ffolliot . . . where d'you live?"