KIPPS
tively pleasing to the untrained eye—and once he jabbed his finger. He would cheerfully have jabbed all his fingers if he could have found some means of using the opening to express himself of the vague emotions that possessed him. But he shirked conversation just as earnestly as he desired it; he feared that profound general ignorance of his might appear.
§ 3
There came a time when she could not open one of the classroom windows. The man with the black beard pored over his chipping heedlessly. . . .
It did not take Kipps a moment to grasp his opportunity. He dropped his gouge and stepped forward. "Lem me," he said. . . .
He could not open the window either!
"Oh, please don't trouble," she said.
"'Sno trouble," he gasped.
Still the sash stuck. He felt his manhood was at stake. He gathered himself together for a tremendous effort, and the pane broke with a snap, and he thrust his hand into the void beyond.
"There!" said Miss Walshingham, and the glass fell ringing into the courtyard below.
Then Kipps made to bring his hand back, and felt the keen touch of the edge of the broken glass at his wrist. He turned dolefully. "I'm tremendously sorry," he said in answer to the accusation in Miss Walshingham's eyes. "I didn't think it would break like that,"—as if he had expected it to break in some quite different and entirely more satisfactory manner. The boy with the gift of wood-carving having stared
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