"It 's most appropriate, I 'm sure, and denotes imagination. It could n't
really be bettered. You must do well at school, sir, with your English."

This did not increase Joe's happiness, for English was the only study of
which he did not have to feel ashamed.

And, while he stood thus a silent picture of misery and disgrace,
Mr. Bronson looked upon him through the eyes of his own boyhood with
an understanding which Joe could not have believed possible.

"However, what you need just now is not a discourse, but a bath and
court-plaster and witch-hazel and cold-water bandages," Mr. Bronson
said; "so to bed with you. You 'll need all the sleep you can get,
and you 'll feel stiff and sore to-morrow morning, I promise you."

The clock struck one as Joe pulled the bedclothes around him; and the
next he knew he was being worried by a soft, insistent rapping, which
seemed to continue through several centuries, until at last, unable to
endure it longer, he opened his eyes and sat up.

The day was streaming in through the window--bright and sunshiny day.
He stretched his arms to yawn; but a shooting pain darted through all
the muscles, and his arms came down more rapidly than they had gone up.
He looked at them with a bewildered stare, till suddenly the events of
the night rushed in upon him, and he groaned.

The rapping still persisted, and he cried: "Yes, I hear. What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock," Bessie's voice came to him through the door. "Eight