The boy was walking to it with that self-consciousness of something like a thousand eyes being on him—so terrible to the mind of a sensitive nature, and his was eminently one—when the head-master's voice was heard.
"Arkell, junior."
Never supposing "Arkell, junior," could be meant for him, he went timidly on; but the voice rose higher.
"Arkell, junior."
It was so peremptory that Henry turned, and found it was meant for him. The sensitive crimson dyed his face deeper and deeper as he retraced his steps to the head-master's desk.
"Are you lame, Arkell, junior?"
"Oh, it's nothing, sir. It's nearly well."
"What's the matter, then?"
"I fell down last week, sir, and hurt my knee a little."
"Oh. Go to your desk."