“Flanagan,” said she, “that is not allowed. I shall give you a bad mark for it.”
Flanagan went on kicking till the end of the sentence, and then subsided ruefully, and said, “The bothering thing won’t come on or off, please, ma’am. It won’t come on with shoving.”
“If your boots are too small,” replied the lady, solemnly, begging the question, “you must write home for new ones.”
“But the bothering things—”
“Batchelor,” said Miss Henniker, turning to me, “this is the boot-room, where you will have to put on and take off your boots whenever you go out or come in. This boy is going out, and will take you into the playground with him,” and away she went, leaving me in the hands of the volatile Flanagan.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
It was a horribly dark place, this boot-room, and I could scarcely see who it was who was questioning me. He seemed to be a big boy, a year or two older than myself, with a face which, as far as I could make it out, was not altogether unpleasant. He continued stamping with his refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.
“Who are you? What’s your name?” he said.
“Fred Batchelor,” I replied, deferentially.
“Batchelor, eh? Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?”