“I beg your pardon, sir,” I faltered, and felt that not a word of my speech was being lost by the assembled house; “I’ve left my lavender six-button gloves in my trunk.”
Mr Sharpe’s mouth curled at the corner in a curious way, and a general titter greeted my explanation from the benches behind.
I was fully convinced now that, after all my care, the very solecism I had planned so carefully to avoid had tripped me up at last.
“Take them off at once, sir, and let me have no more of this foolishness. You are making a bad start. Were you not the boy I had to speak to in the hall this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry I kicked your shins. I hope I didn’t hurt much. I thought you were one of the boys.”
I am sure I meant no harm by it, but he seemed to regard this as a studied insult, and visited me with his wrath not only for it but for the smiles from the boys behind which accompanied it.
“What is this boy’s name?” he inquired severely, looking round.
I wondered who would answer the question; it was evidently not intended for me. It astonished me that Mr Sharpe should not apply at headquarters; I am sure I could have told him. “I think,” said a voice which I recognised as Tempest’s, “his name is Jones, sir.”
Think! Surely Tempest might have had a little more confidence than that.
“Perhaps you will see what you can make of him presently, Tempest. If he has any intelligence at all,” (nice, wasn’t it, for an exhibitioner?) “you may be able to make him understand some of the rules of the place. If not, I am afraid we shall have to put him down as a silly little boy, and bear with him accordingly. Go to your seat now, sir, and report yourself to Tempest after register.”