shaky about the knees, though we youngsters held him too much
in awe to take this into account at the time. To the big boys of the
sixth form Bob was cringing and snivelling; nothing was too menial, so
only as he could keep in their good graces. If he had known how, I dare
say he would have blacked their boots or parted their hair; as it was,
he laid himself out to fetch and carry, to go and come just as their
lordships should direct; and their lordships, I have a notion, winked at
one another and gave him plenty to do.

But to us youngsters Bob was wholly different. For one of us to come so
much as across his path was sufficient provocation to his spite. Like a
spider in its web, he would waylay and capture the wretched small fry of
our school and haul them away to his den. There he would screw their
arms and kick them, just for the pleasure of seeing their faces and
hearing their howls. Generally, indeed, he managed to invent some
pretext for his chastisement. This one had made a grimace at him across
the room yesterday; that one had spilt some ink on his desk; poor Jack
Flighty had had the cheek to laugh outside his door while he was
reading; or Joe Tyler had bagged his straw hat instead of his own.

One day, I remember, I, a little unfortunate of ten summers, fell into
his awful clutches.

"Come here, you young beggar!" I heard him call out.

I dared not disobey, and stood before him shaking in my shoes.

"What are you laughing at?" he says.

"I'm not laughing," I said, feeling anything but in the humour for
jocularity.

"Yes, you are, I tell you--take that!" and a smart box on the ear
followed.

I writhed, but tried hard to suppress my ejaculation of pain.

"What's that you called me?" demanded the bully.

"Nothing," I faltered, rubbing my head.

"Yes, you did," he said; "take that for telling a cram, and that for
calling me names!" and suiting the action to the word he bestowed one
cuff and one kick on my unoffending person, each of which I acknowledged
by a howl.

"Now then," said he, "what did you mean by borrowing Tom Groby's
_Gulliver's Travels_ yesterday when you knew I wanted to read it, eh?"

And he caught hold of my hand and gave my arm a suggestive preliminary
screw.

"I didn't," I said.

"Yes, you did," said he, tightening the pressure, so as to make me catch
my under lip in my teeth. "You knew well enough I was half through it."

"I mean, I _didn't_ borrow it. I never saw t