Mr. Lorton removed his eye-glasses.
“Hancock and Harper,” he said, “stand up.”
They did so, but with marked reluctance.
“Hancock and Harper,” he said, “is this true?”
They were silent. But their faces betrayed them, as did Harper’s Bible, that slipped to the floor.
“Hancock and Harper,” said Mr. Lorton, “I am ashamed of you. You must each write me out fifty lines.”
“But, sir,” I cried, “in justice to myself, who knew the correct answer without committing sacrilege, nay, in justice to my fellow-scholars, to say nothing of Holy Writ, surely these lads must be subjected to some less trivial and severer penalty.”
Mr. Lorton readjusted his glasses. Then he removed them again and began to wipe them.
“Hanper and Harcock,” he said, “I mean Harcock and Hanper, as Carp has reminded you, you have sinned very grievously. But I hope—er—this publicity, this publicity, I say, will not be lacking in its due effect upon you.”
“But, sir,” I cried, “these are mere words.”