"But—er—someone saw you leave my room, Edwards, with a blue-book in your hand."
Steve flushed and his voice held an angry tremor as he answered: "Someone was mistaken, Mr. Daley, whoever he was. Seems to me, sir, if the book is missing, you'd better ask that 'someone' about it."
"Um; yes; maybe." Mr. Daley blinked embarrassedly. "I—er—I thought that perhaps you had brought down your French composition and had possibly, in leaving, taken up Upton's book with your own by mistake. You—er—you're quite sure that didn't happen, Edwards?"
"I'm positive, because I haven't done my composition, sir."
"Haven't done it?"
"No, sir," replied Steve a trifle defiantly.
"But—er—it's pretty late, and you know they are to be handed in to-morrow, Edwards. You are having trouble with it?"
"I—I haven't started it yet. I—I just can't do it, Mr. Daley. I never could do original things like that. That's why I went down to see you. I wanted to ask if you'd let me have a couple more days for it. You see, sir, I've been having a pretty hard time with Latin, and—and there hasn't been any time for the composition, sir."
"I see." Mr. Daley viewed Steve dubiously. "I'm sorry, Edwards. I'm afraid you are not—er—trying very hard to accomplish your work these days."
"I am trying, sir, but—but the Latin—" Steve hesitated. "Mr. Simkins is awfully hard on me, Mr. Daley, and——"