"_I_ say? Speak for yourself. You've a tongue in your head, haven't
you?"
"Perhaps I have, Sir."
"Then it _was_ you?"
Stowell made no answer.
"Why don't you answer me? Answer, Sir! It _was_ you," said the
Principal.
And then Stowell, with a little toss of the head and a slight curl of
the lip, replied,
"If _you_ say it was, what is the use of _my_ saying anything, Sir?"
The last remnant of the Principal's patience left him. His eyes
flamed and his nostrils quivered. A cane, seldom used, was lying
along the ledge of his desk. He turned to it, snatched it up, and
brought it down in two or three rapid sweeps on Stowell's back, and
(as afterwards appeared) his bare neck also.
It was all over in a flash. We gasped again. There was a moment of
breathless silence. All eyes were on Stowell. He was face to face
with the Principal, standing, in his larger proportions, a good two
inches above him, ghastly white and trembling with passion. For a
moment we thought anything might happen. Then Stowell appeared to
recover his self-control. He made another little toss of the head,
another curl of the lip and a shrug of the shoulders.
"Now go back to your study, Sir," said the Principal, between gusts
of breath, "and stay there until you are told to leave it."
Stowell was in no hurry, but he turned after a moment and walked out,
with a strong step, almost a haughty one.
"Boys, go to your classes," said the Principal, in a hoarse voice,
and then he went out, too, but more hurriedly.
Something had gone wrong, wretchedly wrong, we scarcely knew
what--that was our confused impression as we trooped off to the
class-rooms, a dejected lot of lads, half furious, half afraid.