“Now, Carey, you tell them.”

The good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr. Gordon’s indignation.  One day it came to Philip’s turn to translate, and the master sat there glaring at him and furiously biting his thumb.  He was in a ferocious mood.  Philip began to speak in a low voice.

“Don’t mumble,” shouted the master.

Something seemed to stick in Philip’s throat.

“Go on.  Go on.  Go on.”

Each time the words were screamed more loudly.  The effect was to drive all he knew out of Philip’s head, and he looked at the printed page vacantly.  Mr. Gordon began to breathe heavily.

“If you don’t know why don’t you say so?  Do you know it or not?  Did you hear all this construed last time or not?  Why don’t you speak?  Speak, you blockhead, speak!”

The master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as though to prevent himself from falling upon Philip.  They knew that in past days he often used to seize boys by the throat till they almost choked.  The veins in his forehead stood out and his face grew dark and threatening.  He was a man insane.

Philip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now he could remember nothing.

“I don’t know it,” he gasped.

“Why don’t you know it?  Let’s take the words one by one.  We’ll soon see if you don’t know it.”

Philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his head bent down on the book.  The master’s breathing grew almost stertorous.

“The headmaster says you’re clever.  I don’t know how he sees it.  General information.”  He laughed savagely.  “I don’t know what they put you in his form for, Blockhead.”

He was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of his voice.

“Blockhead!  Blockhead!  Club-footed blockhead!”

That relieved him a little.  He saw Philip redden suddenly.  He told him to fetch the Black Book.  Philip put down his Caesar and went silently out.  The Black Book was a sombre volume in which the names of boys were written with their misdeeds, and when a name was down three times it meant a caning.  Philip went to the headmaster’s house and knocked at his study-door.  Mr. Perkins was seated at his table.

“May I have the Black Book, please, sir.”

“There it is,” answered Mr. Perkins, indicating its place by a nod of his head.  “What have you been doing that you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Mr. Perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on with his work.  Philip took the book and went out.  When the hour was up, a few minutes later, he brought it back.

“Let me have a look at it,” said the headmaster.  “I see Mr. Gordon has black-booked you for ‘gross impertinence.’  What was it?”

“I don’t know, sir.  Mr. Gordon said I was a club-footed blockhead.”

Mr. Perkins looked at him again.  He wondered whether there was sarcasm behind the boy’s reply, but he was still much too shaken.  His face was white and his eyes had a look of terrified distress.  Mr. Perkins got up and put the book down.  As he did so he took up some photographs.