Penny, with all his power, was still a boy; and for a moment the child in him flinched before the exceedingly close approach of Mr. Caesar.  But the next minute he looked up at the still open window; shivered, and shuddered; rubbed his cold hands (this beautiful summer morning); buttoned himself up warmly; went to the master’s desk for his books; dropped them one after another; blew on his numbed fingers to infuse a little warmth into them, contriving a whistle, and all the time looking most rebukingly at his tyrannical master; picked up four books and dropped two of them; picked up those and dropped one more; walked to his seat in high sorrow, and banged the whole lot of the books down upon the desk and floor in an appalling cataract, as the full cruelty of Mr. Caesar’s treatment came suddenly home to him.

When we recovered from this shattering explosion of Penny’s books, a little quiet work would have begun, had not Doe, with his romantic imagination lit by the glow of Penny’s audacity, started to crave the notoriety of being likewise a leader of men.  He rose from his desk, approached Mr. Caesar, and extended his hand with a belated “Good morning, sir.”

Poor Mr. Caesar, in the kindliness of his heart, was touched by Doe’s graceful action, and grasped the proffered hand, saying:  “Good morning, Doe.”  By this time the whole class was arranged in a tolerably straight line behind Doe, and waiting to go through the ceremony of shaking hands.

Work commenced at about twenty minutes to twelve, and, when twelve should come, we were to render, according to programme, “God Save the King,” with some delicate humming.  For want of something better to do, I wrote a clause of the exercise set.  Mr. Caesar’s back was now turned and he was studying a wall-map.

“Shall I?”

“Yes, rather!”

These two whispered sentences I heard from behind me.  Inquisitively I turned round to see what simmered there.

“Keep working, you fool!” hissed my neighbour.

Events of some moment were happening in the rear.  It had occurred to several that the hands of the clock might be encouraged with a slight push to hasten their journey over the next few minutes.  Doe, half anxious to be the daring one to do it, half nervous of the consequences, had whispered:  “Shall I?” And his advisers had answered:  “Yes, rather!” He threw down a piece of blotting paper, and tip-toed towards it, as though to pick it up.  Seeing with a side-glance that Mr. Caesar’s back was still turned, he mounted a form, and pushed on the clock’s hands.  Then, hurriedly getting down, he flew back nervously to his seat, where he pretended to be rapidly writing.

Hearing these slithy and suggestive movements, I declined to remain any longer ignorant of their meaning.  After all, I had suggested the “whole bally business,” and was entitled to know the means selected for its conduct.  So round went my inquisitive head.  Then I shook in my glee.  Someone had pushed on the hands of the clock, and it was three minutes to twelve.  There was a rustle of excitement in the room.  The silence of expectancy followed.  “Two-minutes-to” narrowed into “One-minute-to”; and after a premonitory click, which produced sufficient excitement to interfere with our breath, the clock struck twelve.