“No, it is no matter,” began monsieur, with a shrug, when Mark checked him by a gesture almost as intimidating as that by which he had just summoned the offender.
“You hear me?” he said to the boy.
Munger went down on his knees and repeated whatever he was told; and would have called himself by still worse names, had he been requested. It didn’t matter much to Munger!
“Now tell me your name?”
“Munger.”
“Your form?”
“Fifth.”
The master turned on his heel and ushered his guest into the room, leaving Munger to rub his cheek, and wonder to himself how he ever came to stand being knocked about in the way he had been that afternoon.
This had happened a day or two ago. Since then, whatever the house thought, no one was bold enough to molest the French master publicly in Railsford’s, unless it was perfectly certain Mr Railsford was out of the way.
It would be a mistake to say the two masters had become devoted friends. Monsieur Lablache’s chief attraction in Railsford’s eyes was that he was looked down upon by the other masters, and persecuted by the boys; while the French master was so unused to notice of any kind, that he felt a trifle suspicious that the kindness of his new acquaintance might be in some way a snare. However, a little mutual mistrust sometimes paves the way to a good deal of mutual confidence; and after a few days the two men had risen considerably in one another’s esteem. When Railsford, on the evening in question, crushed Mr Bickers’s note up in his hand, with an angry exclamation, monsieur said—