"Has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked.
There was no reply and he seemed surprised. "I—er—I am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?"
Still no dissenting voice. Mr. Daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered Steve at the rear of the room. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside.
"Very well," he said. "I shall mark these this evening. You will—er—kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we left off where, Upton?"
At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.
"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.
"Er—yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. Finally,
"I—er—find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"
"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."
"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you—er—are a bit disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"