Five minutes later we were standing in the hall of Stonebridge House.
It didn’t look much like a school, I remember thinking. It was a large straggling building, rather like a farmhouse, with low ceilings and rickety stairs. The outside was neat, but not very picturesque, and the front garden seemed to have about as much grass in it as the stairs had carpets. As we stood waiting for some one to answer our ring, I listened nervously, I remember, for any sound or trace of my fellow “backward and troublesome boys,” but the school appeared to be confined to one of the long straggling wings behind, and not to encroach on the state portion of the house.
After a second vigorous pull at the bell by our coachman, a stern and scraggy female put in her appearance.
“Is this Frederick Batchelor?” she inquired, in tones which put my juvenile back up instantly.
“Yes, this is Master Freddy,” put in the nervous Mrs Hudson, anxious to conciliate every one on my behalf. “Freddy, dear, say—”
“Is that his box?” continued the stern dame.
“Yes,” said Mrs Hudson, feeling rather chilled; “that’s his box.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, except his umbrella, and a few—”
“Take the box up to my room,” said the lady to a boy who appeared at this moment. “Where is the key?”