"Who told you to call out?" thundered Mr. Harby.
The boy looked up and down, with a guilty air, and a cunning, cynical reserve.
"Please, sir, I was answering," he replied, with the same humble insolence.
"Go to my desk."
The boy set off down the room, the big black jacket hanging in dejected folds about him, his thin legs, rather knocked at the knees, going already with the pauper's crawl, his feet in their big boots scarcely lifted. Ursula watched him in his crawling, slinking progress down the room. He was one of her boys! When he got to the desk, he looked round, half furtively, with a sort of cunning grin and a pathetic leer at the big boys of Standard VII. Then, pitiable, pale, in his dejected garments, he lounged under the menace of the headmaster's desk, with one thin leg crooked at the knee and the foot stuck out sideways his hands in the low-hanging pockets of his man's jacket.
Ursula tried to get her attention back to the class. The boy gave her a little horror, and she was at the same time hot with pity for him. She felt she wanted to scream. She was responsible for the boy's punishment. Mr. Harby was looking at her handwriting on the board. He turned to the class.
"Pens down."
The children put down their pens and looked up.
"Fold arms."
They pushed back their books and folded arms.
Ursula, stuck among the back forms, could not extricate herself.
"What is your composition about?" asked the headmaster. Every hand shot up. "The" stuttered some voice in its eagerness to answer.
"I wouldn't advise you to call out," said Mr. Harby. He would have a pleasant voice, full and musical, but for the detestable menace that always tailed in it. He stood unmoved, his eyes twinkling under his bushy black brows, watching the class. There was something fascinating in him, as he stood, and again she wanted to scream. She was all jarred, she did not know what she felt.
"Well, Alice?" he said.
"The rabbit," piped a girl's voice.
"A very easy subject for Standard Five."
