Peter. And who cares, so long as the master——
John. Don’t be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.)
Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but there’s the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.
(Enter master, taking out his watch.)
Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.
Peter. Yes, sir.—What now? he looks rather black.
(Aside.)
Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?
Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir.
Master. And why do I wish them to study?