“Don’t ask me to play Nibs with you again,” he said to Philip. “It’s
jolly nice for you. You don’t risk anything.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Didn’t you!”
He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always
rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground.
“Cripple,” said Singer.
For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though
Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it
was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased
himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife
he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and
kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was
helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg
his pardon. It was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear
the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater
than he could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end
to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to the
upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realised that he must live
two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was only
happy while he was working and when he got into bed. And often there
recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its
misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning
in his own little bed in London.