The young woman flushed with indignation to the roots of her hair.
"Rode the six hundred,"
she snapped at him.
The class was arustle with delight at this cruel display. They were no better than a Roman populace in Nero's time.
Jimmie started off again:
"Half a leg—league, half a league, half a league onward.
All in the valley of death rode the six hundred.
Forward—forward—forward—"
"The Light Brigade," suggested the teacher, sharply.
"The Light Brigade," said Jimmie. He was about to die of the ignoble pain of his position.
As for Tennyson's lines, they had all gone grandly out of his mind, leaving it a whited wall.
The teacher's indignation was still rampant. She looked at the miserable wretch before her with an angry stare.