The boy obeyed, and Trimble looked round at Jeffreys with a glance of patronising complacency.
“That’s the proper way to do with them,” said he. “Plenty of ways of taking it out of them without knocking them about.”
Jeffreys made no reply; he felt rather sorry for the weak-kneed little youngster perched up on that form, and wondered if Mr Trimble would expect him (Jeffreys) to adopt his method of “taking it out” of his new pupils.
Just then he caught sight of the familiar face of Master Freddy, one of his friends of the morning, who was standing devouring him with his eyes as if he had been a ghost. Jeffreys walked across the room and shook hands with him.
“Well, Freddy, how are you? How’s Teddy?”
“I say,” said Trimble, in by no means an amiable voice, as he returned from this little excursion, “what on earth are you up to? What did you go and do that for?”
“I know Freddy.”
“Oh, do you? Freddy Rosher, you’re talking. What do you mean by it?”
“Please, sir, I didn’t mean—”
“Then stay in an hour after school, and write four pages of your copy-book.”