“Well, look here, Jones,” said she, in a friendly way—and, by the way, she was not at all bad-looking—“if you really want to get up Latin, and mean to work, I’ll do my best to coach you; but if you’re only playing at learning, I’ve something better to do.”
“I’m not playing,” said I. “I don’t know why I’ve got to come and learn Latin at all.”
“I suppose you are going to a school some day, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been to one, and I’ve left,” said I.
“Left?” said she, with a little laugh.
“Well, then, I was expelled,” said I.
“Tell me all about it.”
And I did, and found her not only interested and sympathetic, but decidedly indignant on my account.
“It was a great shame,” said she, “especially as your friend never shot the dog at all.”
“He’s all right, lucky chap,” said I; “he’s got an exhibition to Low Heath, and is going there after the holidays.”