as he stood and trickled rain outside the staff room. After all his trouble!
“I did look, sir,” he assured Mr. Towers.
Mr. Towers glanced at Charles’s soaking hair and rain-dewed glasses. “Anyone can stand in the rain,” he said. “Are you paying for new ones or writing lines?”
“Doing lines,” Charles said resentfully.
“In detention every evening until Christmas then,” Mr. Towers said. The idea seemed to please him. “Wait.” He dodged back into the staff room and came out again with a fat old book. “Here,” he said, handing the book to Charles. “Copy five hundred lines of this out every evening. It will show you what a real schoolboy should be like. When you’ve copied it all, I’ll give you the sequel.”
Charles stood in front of the staff room and looked at the book. It was called The Pluckiest Boy in School. It smelled of mildew. Inside, the pages were furry and brownish, and the first line of the story went: “What ripping fun!” exclaimed Watts Minor. “I’m down for scrum half this afternoon!”
Charles looked from this to the fat, transparent, and useless blister on his finger and felt rather ill. “Magicking hell,” he said.
“Good morning, Charles,” said Miss Hodge, tripping toward the staff room, all fresh and unaware. “That looks like a nice old book. I’m glad to see you doing some serious reading at last.”
She was most disconcerted to receive one of Charles’s heaviest double-barreled glares. What a moody boy he was to be sure! she thought as she neatly stripped off her raincoat. She was equally surprised to find the staff room in some kind of uproar, with a pile of boots and shoes in the middle. Still, there was Mr. Wentworth at last, flying past on his way somewhere else. Miss Hodge stood in his way.
“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I want to apologize for making that accusation against Charles Morgan.” That was pretty generous of her, she thought, after the way Charles had just looked at her. She smiled generously at Mr. Wentworth.
To her annoyance, Mr. Wentworth simply said, “I’m glad to hear it,” and brushed past her quite rudely. But he did have a lot on his mind, Miss Hodge realized, when Mr. Crossley told her excitedly all about the shoes. She did not hold it against Mr. Wentworth. She collected books—they had gotten spilled all over the floor somehow—and went off to give 6B another English lesson.
She arrived to find Simon Silverson holding aloft The Pluckiest Boy in School. “Listen to this!” he was saying. “Swelling with pride, Watts Minor gazed into the eyes of his one true friend. Here was a boy above all, straight alike in body and mind—”
Theresa and Delia were screaming with laughter, with their faces buried in their knitting. Charles was glaring blue murder.
“Really, Simon!” said Miss Hodge. “That was unworthy of you.” Simon looked at her in astonishment. He knew he never did anything unworthy. “But, Charles,” said Miss Hodge, “I do think you made rather an unfortunate choice of book.” For the second time that day, Charles turned his glare on her. Miss Hodge flinched. Really, if she had not known now that Charles was a nice boy underneath, that glare of his would make her think seriously of the Evil Eye.
Nirupam held up his long arm. “Are we going to do acting again?” he asked hopefully.
“No, we are not,” Miss Hodge said, with great firmness. “Get out your poetry books.”
The lesson, and the rest of the morning, dragged past. Theresa finished her second bootee and cast on stitches for a sweater. Estelle knitted quite a lot of a baby’s bonnet. Brian gave up staring at the wall and instead seemed to be attacked by violent industry. Whenever anyone looked at him, he was scribbling furiously in a different exercise book.
Charles sat and brooded, rather surprised at the things going on in his mind. He was not frightened at all now. He seemed to be accepting the fact he was a witch quite calmly after all.
“I did look, sir,” he assured Mr. Towers.
Mr. Towers glanced at Charles’s soaking hair and rain-dewed glasses. “Anyone can stand in the rain,” he said. “Are you paying for new ones or writing lines?”
“Doing lines,” Charles said resentfully.
“In detention every evening until Christmas then,” Mr. Towers said. The idea seemed to please him. “Wait.” He dodged back into the staff room and came out again with a fat old book. “Here,” he said, handing the book to Charles. “Copy five hundred lines of this out every evening. It will show you what a real schoolboy should be like. When you’ve copied it all, I’ll give you the sequel.”
Charles stood in front of the staff room and looked at the book. It was called The Pluckiest Boy in School. It smelled of mildew. Inside, the pages were furry and brownish, and the first line of the story went: “What ripping fun!” exclaimed Watts Minor. “I’m down for scrum half this afternoon!”
Charles looked from this to the fat, transparent, and useless blister on his finger and felt rather ill. “Magicking hell,” he said.
“Good morning, Charles,” said Miss Hodge, tripping toward the staff room, all fresh and unaware. “That looks like a nice old book. I’m glad to see you doing some serious reading at last.”
She was most disconcerted to receive one of Charles’s heaviest double-barreled glares. What a moody boy he was to be sure! she thought as she neatly stripped off her raincoat. She was equally surprised to find the staff room in some kind of uproar, with a pile of boots and shoes in the middle. Still, there was Mr. Wentworth at last, flying past on his way somewhere else. Miss Hodge stood in his way.
“Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I want to apologize for making that accusation against Charles Morgan.” That was pretty generous of her, she thought, after the way Charles had just looked at her. She smiled generously at Mr. Wentworth.
To her annoyance, Mr. Wentworth simply said, “I’m glad to hear it,” and brushed past her quite rudely. But he did have a lot on his mind, Miss Hodge realized, when Mr. Crossley told her excitedly all about the shoes. She did not hold it against Mr. Wentworth. She collected books—they had gotten spilled all over the floor somehow—and went off to give 6B another English lesson.
She arrived to find Simon Silverson holding aloft The Pluckiest Boy in School. “Listen to this!” he was saying. “Swelling with pride, Watts Minor gazed into the eyes of his one true friend. Here was a boy above all, straight alike in body and mind—”
Theresa and Delia were screaming with laughter, with their faces buried in their knitting. Charles was glaring blue murder.
“Really, Simon!” said Miss Hodge. “That was unworthy of you.” Simon looked at her in astonishment. He knew he never did anything unworthy. “But, Charles,” said Miss Hodge, “I do think you made rather an unfortunate choice of book.” For the second time that day, Charles turned his glare on her. Miss Hodge flinched. Really, if she had not known now that Charles was a nice boy underneath, that glare of his would make her think seriously of the Evil Eye.
Nirupam held up his long arm. “Are we going to do acting again?” he asked hopefully.
“No, we are not,” Miss Hodge said, with great firmness. “Get out your poetry books.”
The lesson, and the rest of the morning, dragged past. Theresa finished her second bootee and cast on stitches for a sweater. Estelle knitted quite a lot of a baby’s bonnet. Brian gave up staring at the wall and instead seemed to be attacked by violent industry. Whenever anyone looked at him, he was scribbling furiously in a different exercise book.
Charles sat and brooded, rather surprised at the things going on in his mind. He was not frightened at all now. He seemed to be accepting the fact he was a witch quite calmly after all.
Similar Books
