“It won’t do at all,” interposed Hurst. “The head of it is, ‘Revered master,’ and the tail, ‘Yours affectionately.’”
A shout of laughter; Brittle’s voice rose above the noise. “And the middle is an eloquent piece of composition, calculated to take the master’s obdurate heart by storm, and move it to redress our wrongs.”
“We have no wrongs to redress of that sort,” cried Gerald Yorke.
“Being an interested party, you ought to keep your mouth shut,” called out Hurst to Yorke.
“Keep yours shut first,” retorted Yorke to Hurst. “Not being interested, there’s no need to open yours at all.”
“Let’s see the thing,” said Huntley.
Brittle drew from his pocket a sheet of a copy-book, tumbled, blotted, scribbled over with the elegance that only a schoolboy can display. Several heads had been laid together, and a sketch of the memorial drawn out between them. Shorn of what Hurst had figuratively called the head and tail, and which had been added for nonsense, it was not a bad production. The boys clustered round Brittle, looking over his shoulder, as he read the composition aloud for the benefit of those who could not elbow space to see.
“It wouldn’t be bad,” said Huntley, critically, “if it were done into good grammar.”
“Into what?” roared Brittle. “The grammar’s as good as you can produce any day, Huntley. Come!”
“I’ll correct it for you,” said Huntley, coolly. “There are a dozen faults in it.”