Yet he was a good teacher, and made good scholars; kind, too—out of school, that is. But as we only met him in school, and with a black frown running across-ways between his eyes, we declined to believe in his kindness of heart, at any price.
"You are my subjects, great and little, bad or good," he used to preach to us. "In Breckonside school only the king, the head of the Church, is greater than I. Like him, I reward the virtuous, and I punish the naughty!"
We thought within us that virtue must be scarce in Breckonside school. For as yet but few of the rewards had come our way. Of punishments there was never any lack, as our skins well knew.
"Some rascals were in my garden last night," said Mr. Mustard, "to the overturning of my potted geraniums. The size of his boot was a number six, like what are sold at Provost Yarrow's shop. I will flog all the boys with number six boots bought at The Shop, unless the culprit confesses. Show boots."
We showed them, putting them, as commanded, on the wooden desks with a clatter that made the ink leap in the dirty bottles. We did that on purpose.
"Quiet, boys, till I compare them," said Mr. Mustard. "Stand out, you—Tommy Bottle—you have on number six!"
Tommy Bottle dug his knuckles into his eyeholes and whined: "Please, sir, I was——"
"Don't answer me, sir!" cried Mr. Mustard; "how dare you? Bring me the long cane!"
"But, please, sir, I——"
"Thomas Bottle, your punishment is doubled!" shouted the master, bringing the pointer down across Tommy's legs, as a kind of "lick and a promise." He needn't. Tommy knew well enough what was coming.