“I am in charge of the house,” thundered Mr Bickers. “Obey me, and go.”
They withdrew, chafing, crestfallen, and very uncomfortable.
“Now,” said Mr Bickers, when the door was again closed, “Arthur Herapath, come here.”
Mr Bickers’s knowledge of the names of the boys in other houses was quite phenomenal. Arthur, with hanging head and thumping heart, slunk forward.
“So, sir,” said Mr Bickers, fixing him with his eye, “you are the model boy whom I heard proclaiming as I came in that you could make as much noise as you liked, and called your absent master by an insulting name.”
“Please, sir,” pleaded the unlucky Arthur, “I didn’t mean it to be insulting. I only called him Marky, because he’s my brother-in-law—I mean he’s going to be.”
“That’s right, Mr Bickers,” said the baronet, nobly backing up his friend; “he’s spoo— I mean he’s engaged to Daisy, Herapath’s sister.”
“Silence, sir,” said the master with a curl of his lips. “Herapath, come here, and hold out your hand.”
So saying, he took up a ruler from a desk close at hand.
“Please, sir,” expostulated Arthur—he didn’t mind a cane, but had a rooted objection to rulers—“I really didn’t—”