On my way back I stayed to admire the classical busts and statues that lined the deserted corridors like exhibits in a museum.  All the life-size ones I whacked with my cane.  I took a wistful pleasure in giving the naked ones two good strokes each.  As I drew near the class-room door I certainly felt uncomfortable, for I knew Fillet intended to sting.  But my sense of martyrdom carried me through.  I gathered my dignity about me and knocked heavily on the door.  Annoyed that my hand had trembled and spoilt the effect, I opened the door briskly and shut it briskly.  With a calm step and fearless look, both studied, for I copied Doe in these matters, I walked towards Carpet Slippers.  The little man was pretending he had forgotten all about me, while really he had prepared a sarcasm with which to poison my wounds.

“Oh, indeed.  You’ve b-been a long time gone; but thrashings are like good wine—­they improve with keeping.”

He sucked in his breath with satisfaction.

“Yes, sir,” replied I. If there was any trembling about me it was inside and not visible.

He took the cane from my hand and examined its effectiveness.  Then, intending a pretty little jest, he faced the class and commanded: 

“St-stand out, that boy who asked the number of the sum after I had put it on the board.”

“Swine!” hissed somebody.  I fancy it was Edgar Doe.

“I’m here, sir,” replied I from his side, white.

Pennybet, who all this time had kept his mouth agape and impersonated the village idiot, laid down his pen, closed his book, and disposed himself to watch out the matter.  He was always callous when in pursuit of his object; and his object now was to suck the humour out of my painful position.  He put his elbow on the desk, rested his head at a graceful angle on the palm of his hand, and half closed his Arab eyes.  He looked like an earnest parson posing for a photograph.

Our engaging little master, having bent me over and arranged me for punishment, gave me ten strokes instead of the usual six—­the number of the sum had been “ten.”

When I rose from my bended posture, how I hated Carpet Slippers, and was happy in my hate!  I hated the silkiness of his chestnut beard; I hated the sheen of his pink cranium; I hated his soft rotundity and his little curvilinear features; I hated, above all, his poisonous speeches.  As I walked to my seat, my body stinging still, I resolved to go to war with Fillet.  I declared with all a child’s power of make-believe that a state of war existed between Rupert Ray and Carpet Slippers.  War, then, war, open or understood!

And when that class closed, no boy was more forcedly loud and lively than I:  no boy shut his books with greater claps; no boy banged his desk more carelessly.  Nor would I listen to sympathising friends, but laughed out in Fillet’s hearing:  “You don’t think I care, do you?”