“What school did you go to?”
“The Board-school.”
“And did you learn it there?”
“No—I——” The boy went crimson and got no further.
“His godfather gave him lessons,” said Mrs. Morel, half-pleading and rather distant.
Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner—he always seemed to keep his hands ready for action—he pulled another sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it to Paul.
“Read that,” he said.
It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.
“ ‘Monsieur,’ ” he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan. “It’s the—it’s the——”
He wanted to say “handwriting,” but his wits would no longer work even sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.
“ ‘Sir, Please send me’—er—er—I can’t tell the—er—‘two pairs—gris fil bas—grey thread stockings’—er—er—sans—without’—er—I can’t tell the words—er—‘doigts—fingers’—er—I can’t tell the——”
He wanted to say “handwriting,” but the word still refused to come. Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.
“ ‘Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without toes.’ ”
“Well,” flashed Paul, “ ‘doigts’ means ‘fingers’—as well—as a rule——”
The little man looked at him. He did not know whether “doigts” meant “fingers”; he knew that for all his purposes it meant “toes.”
“Fingers to stockings!” he snapped.
“Well, it does mean fingers,” the boy persisted.
He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the favour of others.
“And when could be come?” he asked.
“Well,” said Mrs. Morel, “as soon as you wish. He has finished school now.”
“He would live in Bestwood?”
