"I can," said Cleg Kelly promptly.
"Then," said Samson, smiling, well-pleased, "we will take you last."
With various hitches and shoves, the awkward and unruly class bored its way through the Psalm—"metrical version." An impartial observer might have noticed that the teacher contributed about ninety-five per cent. of the recitation in the form of hints and suggestions. Nevertheless, each boy, having completed his portion, sat back with a proud consciousness that he had done his duty with even needless promptitude and accuracy. Also it was an established canon of the place that so soon as each boy was released from the eye of the teacher, he instantly put his hand slyly under the bench. Then he either nipped his neighbour in a place which made the sufferer take an instant interest in the circumstance, or else he incontinently stuck a pin into him.
In either case the boy assaulted remarked: "Ouch! please, sir, Tam Rogerson's nippin' me. Wull ye speak to him?"
But this was only the usual routine, and provoked no remark.
When, however, the superintendent came to Cleg Kelly, and that diligent young student began at once to reel off the twenty-third Psalm with vivacity and despatch—the psalm which the entire body of Scottish youth learns long before the A, B, C—it was obviously time to interfere.
"If ye please, sir (or whether or no), that's no the richt yin!" said Tam Rogerson, who ran Cleg close for the place of honour as the "warst loon i' the schule!" This was a post of as great distinction at Hunker Court as the position of clown in a circus.
Cleg's answer was twofold.
To Tam Rogerson he remarked—under his breath, it is true, but with startling distinctness—