“Well, if you only turn out as good a bat as your brother—how well he played in the Alphabet Match!”
Stephen was reviving fast now, and embarked on a lively chat about his favourite sport, by the end of which the tea was brewed, and he and Mr Rastle sitting “cheek by jowl” at the table, with the muffins and jam between them.
Presently Mr Rastle steered the talk round to Stephen’s home, a topic even more delightful than cricket. The boy launched out into a full account of the old house and his mother, till the tears very nearly stood in his eyes and the muffins very nearly stuck in his throat. Mr Rastle listened to it all with a sympathetic smile, throwing in questions now and then which it charmed the boy to answer.
“And how do you like Saint Dominic’s?” presently inquired the master. “I suppose you’ve made plenty of friends by this time?”
“Oh yes, sir. It’s not as slow as it was at first.”
“That’s right. You’ll soon get to feel at home. And how do you think you are getting on in class?”
Stephen was astonished at this question. If any one knew how he was getting on in class Mr Rastle did, and, alas! Mr Rastle must know well enough that Stephen was getting on badly.
“Not very well, I’m afraid, sir, thank you,” replied the boy, not feeling exactly comfortable.
“Not? That’s a pity. Are the lessons too hard for you?” kindly inquired Mr Rastle.
“No, I don’t think so—that is—no, they’re not, sir.”