'No good at football and cricket, but promises well,' said the boys, 'and can climb and jump anything, and use his fists, too.'
Ten days had passed, and Dr. Rayne, at work in his library, was disturbed by a knock, and the matron entered.
'I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is about that new little boy, Paul Fife. I cannot get him to eat his dinner properly; he seems hungry at first, and then leaves off—later, I look at his plate and it is cleared. I find from some of the boys that he puts the greater part of the meat in his pocket, and, I suppose, throws it away. I thought I had better come to you.'
'Certainly; send Fife to me.'
A timid step, and the small boy came shyly in.
'Come here, little man,' the Doctor called, pleasantly. 'I want to talk to you. You are not too big to get on my knee. No, I thought not. You see, you are one of my little boys now, and we all want to be as happy as possible. You are very thin; do they give you enough to eat?'
'Oh, yes, sir,' the child pressed his hands nervously together.
'And you like what you get, I hope. We have not Burmese and Indian cooks, you know.'
'Yes, I like it all, thank you.'
'And yet Miss Owen tells me you do not eat your dinner, but pocket it—I hope you don't waste and throw away good food, Paul.'