“Yes, sir.”
Sam fancied that the principal moved uneasily, as if he didn’t like the course the examination was taking. Yet the head of the school permitted his assistant to go on.
“Well, Parker, it happens that the ownership of a certain book is a matter of some interest to us. We are anxious to establish it definitely. By the way”—the sub-master pushed aside a paper on the desk and revealed a worn and battered text-book it had concealed—“by the way, [can you tell us anything about this?]”
Sam picked up the book. He glanced at the fly-leaves. They were torn and dog-eared, and bore a dozen scribbled entries. It was plain enough that the book had been handed down from class to class, though it would have puzzled anybody to get much clew to its present ownership from the conflicting scrawls. Then Sam turned to the last printed page, and found there a penciled skull and crossbones.
“If Trojan says this is his Cicero, he’s right, sir.”
“You—er—er—you corroborate him, then?”
Again Sam sensed the principal’s lack of approval of the question; but made mental note, too, that he let the sub-master continue.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy; “though he doesn’t need corroboration.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“I ought to be—I drew that picture on the last page. Did it one day when I’d borrowed the book from Trojan.”