Dr. Mantelsack made a sudden violent movement, which was responded to on Petersen’s part by a similar movement. And in the same moment the master left his seat, dashed headlong down from his platform, and approached Petersen with long, impetuous strides.
“You have a crib in your book,” he said as he came up.
“A crib—I—no,” stammered Petersen. He was a charming lad, with a great wave of blond hair on his forehead and lovely blue eyes which now flickered in a frightened way.
“You have no crib in your book?”
“A crib, Herr Doctor? No, really, I haven’t. You are mistaken. You are accusing me falsely.” Petersen betrayed himself by the unnatural correctness of his language, which he used in order to intimidate the master. “I am not deceiving you,” he repeated, in the greatness of his need. “I have always been honourable, my whole life long.”
But Dr. Mantelsack was all too certain of the painful fact.
“Give me your book,” he said coldly.
Petersen clung to his book; he raised it up in both hands and went on protesting. He stammered, his tongue grew thick. “Believe me, Herr Doctor. There is nothing in the book—I have no crib—I have not deceived you—I have always been honourable—”
“Give me your book,” repeated the master, stamping his foot.
Then Petersen collapsed, and his face grew grey.