There was laughter in court, in which his worship joined.

“O law!” ejaculated I, as things began to fall into shape.

“Really, child, such expressions as ‘O law!’ are out of order, especially when they’re only so much bluff....  I must now approach a subject which may have sordid recollections for you, but in the interest of the law I am bound to allude to it.  Were you whacked—­ahem!—­chastised a few days ago by the aforesaid Mr. Fillet?”

“Yes.”

“When did the old gaffer—­when did Mr. Fillet whack you?”

“Yes, tell the gentleman that,” put in Kepple-Goddard, a prefect who felt that he was not playing a sufficiently imposing part and wished to have his voice heard.

“A week ago last Monday,” I answered.

“Where did he whack you?” pursued Stanley.

“On the recognised spot.”

“Now, don’t be cheeky.  In what place did he whack you?”

“Why, in his class-room, of course,” I retorted.  “Where do you think he’d do it?  In the High Street?” As I said this I was seized with a nervous fit of giggling.

“Look here, sonny,” said Kepple-Goddard, rapping on the table, “you’re going the right way towards getting a prefects’ whacking for contempt of court.”

Stanley raised his hand for silence.

“Why did he whack you?”

“Because he couldn’t get my sum right.”

Here Banana-Skin, a large and overbearing prefect, so called because of his yellowish complexion, burst in with the skill of a prosecuting counsel: 

“Oh, then, are we to understand that you were whacked unjustly and had reason for vindictiveness?”

“Go easy, Banana-Skin,” protested Stanley.  “Don’t bully the kid.”

“But,” I said, beginning to feel that horrid array of tears mobilising again, “that was some time before he gave me the lines—­”

“Don’t beat about the bush,” interrupted Banana-Skin.  “Did you feel that you hated him?”

The question was not answered at once.  I cannot explain how it was, but the figure of Radley stood very clearly before my mind’s eye, and this helped me to speak the truth, though my voice broke a bit.

“Yes.”

“Ah!” Everybody considered Banana-Skin to have elicited a damning admission.

“Now,” continued Stanley, his curiosity superseding his sense of what was relevant, “how many cuts did he give you?”

“Ten.”

“Poor little beggar!  Didn’t that seem to you rather a lot?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Now answer the Coroner that,” commanded Kepple-Goddard.

“Yes,” I replied.

“H’m!” grunted Stanley.  “How did you know where you could find your thousand lines so that you could tear them up?”

“I don’t know what you mean. You’re bluffing now.”

“Hallo!” cried Banana-Skin.  “Didn’t you hear him say ’You’re bluffing now’?  That shows that he was bluffing before.”