“What’s your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh! Does your mother wash?”
“My mother’s dead, too.”
Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain
awkwardness, but
Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness
for so little.
“Well, did she wash?” he went on.
“Yes,” said Philip indignantly.
“She was a washerwoman then?”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Then she didn’t wash.”
The little boy crowed with delight at the success
of his dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip’s
feet.
“What’s the matter with your foot?”
Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight.
He hid it behind the one which was whole.
“I’ve got a club-foot,” he answered.
“How did you get it?”
“I’ve always had it.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“No.”
“Don’t then.”
The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp
kick on Philip’s shin, which Philip did not
expect and thus could not guard against. The pain
was so great that it made him gasp, but greater than
the pain was the surprise. He did not know why
Venning kicked him. He had not the presence of
mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy
was smaller than he, and he had read in The Boy’s
Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit anyone smaller
than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin
a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him.
In a little while he noticed that the pair were talking
about him, and he felt they were looking at his feet.
He grew hot and uncomfortable.
But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more,
and they began to talk about their doings during the
holidays, where they had been, and what wonderful
cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared,
and with these presently Philip found himself talking.
He was shy and nervous. He was anxious to make
himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything
to say. He was asked a great many questions and
answered them all quite willingly. One boy asked
him whether he could play cricket.
“No,” answered Philip. “I’ve
got a club-foot.”
The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip
saw that he felt he had asked an unseemly question.
He was too shy to apologise and looked at Philip awkwardly.
Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip
he looked round his cubicle in astonishment.
Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
was.
“Are you awake, Singer?”
The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine,
and there was a green curtain in front. In those
days there was little thought of ventilation, and
the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
aired in the morning.
