“Yes.” Jasper nodded his head, unable to utter another word. Then he sprang off from the table-end, and walked up and down the room, as Polly sank back in her chair.
“You see, it's just this way, Polly,” he cried. “Pick has had warning after warning—you know the teachers have a system of sending written warnings around to the boys when they fall behind in their work—and he hasn't paid any attention to them.”
“Won't he pay attention to what the teachers write to him, Jasper?” asked Polly, leaning forward in her big chair to watch him anxiously as he paced back and forth.
“No, calls them rubbish, and tears them up; and sometimes he won't even read them,” said Jasper. “Oh, it's awful, Polly.”
“I should say it was,” said Polly slowly. “Very awful indeed, Jasper.”
“And the last time he had one from Herr Frincke about his German, Pick brought it into the room where a lot of us boys were, and read it out, with no end of fun over it, and it went into the scrap-basket; and he hasn't tackled his grammar a bit better since; only the translations he's up a trifle on.”
“Oh, now I know why you wouldn't go to ride with me for the last week,” cried Polly, springing out of her chair to rush up to him, “you've been helping Pickering,” she declared, with kindling eyes.
“Never mind,” said Jasper uneasily.
“And it was splendid of you,” cried Polly, the color flying over her cheeks. “Oh Jasper, I do believe you can pull him through.”
“No, I can't, Polly.” Jasper stood quite still. “No one can pull him through, but you, Polly.”