“Forty-four. Are you anything of a teacher? Can you keep order?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t tried yet.”
“Well, just mind what you’re about. Keep your hands off the boys; we don’t want manslaughter or anything of that sort here.”
Jeffreys started. Was it possible that this was a random shot, or did Trimble know about Bolsover and young Forrester? The next remark somewhat reassured him.
“They’re looking sharp after private schools now; so mind, hands off. There’s one o’clock striking. All in! Come along. You’d better take the second class and see what you can make of them. Precious little ma will put her nose in, now you’re here to do the work.”
He led the way down the passage and across a yard into an outhouse which formed the schoolroom. Here were assembled, as the two ushers entered, some forty boys ranging in age from seven to twelve, mostly, to judge from their dress and manners, of the small shopkeeper and farmer class.
The sound of Trimble’s voice produced a dead silence in the room, followed immediately by a movement of wonder as the big, ungainly form of the new assistant appeared. Jeffreys’ looks, as he himself knew, were not prepossessing, and the juvenile population of Galloway House took no pains to conceal the fact that they agreed with him.
“Gordon,” said Trimble, addressing a small boy who had been standing up when they entered, “what are you doing?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“You’ve no business to be doing nothing! Stand upon that form for an hour!”