So it happened nightly that when Celie Tennant was at the most impressive portions of the Scripture lesson, or engaged in elucidating the mysteries of compound division (and pardonably getting a little tangled among the farthings), that there would come a long whistle at the door, and then a smart rapping at the window. Another blast like a steamer signal was blown before the dark tower, the Knuckle Dusters would throw their heads back to laugh, and then look at Cleaver's boy. He would stand it a little while, and then, to escape from their meaning looks, he would throw down his slate and books and go quietly out at the door.
At last Celie plucked up courage to speak to him.
"It is not so much that I mind," said Celie, for she had been learning many things since she came down to the Sooth Back, things that she did not mention when she went home to Aurelia Villa, or even repeat to the Junior Partner.
"It is not that I mind so much myself," she said, "but it is a very bad example for Cleg and the younger boys."
"I ken, I ken, but faith, I canna help it, Miss Celie," said Cleaver's boy, in desperation. "As sure as daith, it is no my faut. Thae twa lasses will juist no let me alane. I canna gang alang the street for them."
And Celie, blushing for her sex, believed him and condoled. For, next to Cleg, she had a weakness for Cleaver's boy. He was so good-looking.
"Wait till they come the nicht!" said Cleaver's boy, darkly.
It was the hour of the vesper writing lesson. Cleaver's boy was seated at the long desk which Mr. Donald Iverach had found, as he said, "about the premises"—but for which he had, curiously enough, previously paid out of his own pocket. Cleaver's boy had his head close down to the paper. His elbows were spread-eagled over the table. His shoulders were squared with determination, and his whole pose gave token of the most complete absorption and studious intentness. He was writing the line, "Kindness to dumb animals is a sign of nobility of character." As his pen traced the curves, his tongue was elaborating the capitals, so exactly that you could almost tell by watching the tip whether Cleaver's boy was writing a K or an N. This kind of expressive caligraphy has not been sufficiently studied. But Cleaver's boy was undoubtedly a master of it.
There came angry voices at the door.
"What are you doin' here? I tell ye he's my chap!" said a voice sharp and shrill.