“Look-out, I say,” said Flanagan, in a frightened whisper; “you’ll get us all in a row!”
“In a row?” I replied. “Who with?”
“Why, old Hen; but shut up, do you hear?” and here he dipped his face in the basin, and so effectually ended the talk.
This was quite a revelation to me. Get in a row with Miss Henniker for speaking to one of my schoolfellows in the dormitory! A lively prospect and no mistake.
Presently a bell rang, and we all wended our way down stairs into the parlour where I had yesterday enjoyed my tête-à-tête with Miss Henniker. Here we found that lady standing majestically in the middle of the room, like a general about to review a regiment.
“Show nails!” she ejaculated, as soon as all were assembled.
This mysterious mandate was the signal for each boy passing before her, exhibiting, as he did so, his hands.
As I was last in the procession I had time to watch the effect of this proceeding. “Showing nails,” as I afterwards found out, was a very old-established rule at Stonebridge House, and one under which every generation of “backward and troublesome boys” who resided there had groaned. If any boy’s hands or nails were, in the opinion of Miss Henniker, unclean or untidy, he received a bad mark, and was at once dismissed to the dormitory to remedy the defect.
One or two in front of me suffered thus, and a glance down at my own extremities made me a little doubtful as to my fate. I did what I could with them privately, but their appearance was not much improved.
At last I stood for inspection before the dreadful Henniker.