Trimble shut the book. It was beyond him. If Pridger had said 848 or 850, he could have made something of it. But it floored him completely to find the second class knowing the exact number of convicts in one given year of English history.
“Don’t let me catch any of you wasting your time,” he said. “Farrar, what do you mean by looking about you, sir? Stand on the form for half an hour.”
“Farrar has been very quiet and attentive all the afternoon,” said Jeffreys.
“Stand on the form an hour, Farrar,” said Trimble, with a scowl.
Jeffreys’ brow darkened as he watched the little tyrant strut off to his class. How long would he be able to keep hands off him?
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. An unconscious bond of sympathy had arisen between the new master and his pupils. His historical importance invested him with a glamour which was nearly heroic; and his kind word on Farrar’s behalf had won him an amount of confidence which was quick in showing itself. “We like you better than Fison, though he was nice,” said Bacon, as the class was about to separate.
“I hope Trimble won’t send you away,” said another.
“I wish you’d condemn young Trimble to death, or transport him, Mr Jeffreys,” said a third confidentially.
“Good-bye, Mr Jeffreys,” said Freddy, with all the confidence of an old friend. “Did you like that parliament cake?”
“Awfully,” said Jeffreys. “Good-bye.”