“Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r”, spelled a lad, loudly, with a note of mockery.

At that moment Mr. Harby was passing.

“Stand up, Hill!” he called, in a big voice.

Everybody started. Ursula watched the boy. He was evidently poor, and rather cunning. A stiff bit of hair stood straight off his forehead, the rest fitted close to his meagre head. He was pale and colourless.

“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.”