“Your hands are dirty, Batchelor. A bad mark. Go and wash them.”
The bad mark, whatever it might mean, appeared to me very unjust. Had I known the rule, it would have been different, but how was I to know, when no one had told me?
“Please, ma’am, I didn’t—”
“Two bad marks for talking!” was my only reply, and off I slunk, feeling rather crushed, to the dormitory.
I found Flanagan scrubbing at our basin.
“Ah,” said he, “I thought you’d get potted.”
“I think it’s a shame,” said I.
“Look-out, I say,” exclaimed Flanagan, skipping away as if he’d been shot, and resuming his wash at the other basin.
Presently he came back on tip-toe, and whispered, “Why can’t you talk lower, you young muff?”
“Surely she can’t hear, here up stairs?”