Through the mist which had gathered before my eyes I saw a boy coming
out of the boys' class at the end of the long room. It was Martin
Conrad, and I remember that he rolled as he walked like old Tommy the
gardener. Everybody saw him, and the schoolmistress said in her sharp
voice:

"Martin Conrad, what right have you to leave your place without
permission? Go back, sir, this very moment."

Instead of going back Martin came on, and as he did so he dragged his
big soft hat out of the belt of his Norfolk jacket and with both hands
pulled it down hard on his head.

"Go back, sir!" cried the schoolmistress, and I saw her step towards him
with the cane poised and switching in the air, as if about to strike.

The boy said nothing, but just shaking himself like a big dog he dropped
his head and butted at the schoolmistress as she approached him, struck
her somewhere in the waist and sent her staggering and gasping against
the wall.

Then, without a word, he took my hand, as something that belonged to
him, and before the schoolmistress could recover her breath, or the
scholars awake from their astonishment, he marched me, as if his little
stocky figure had been sixteen feet tall, in stately silence out of the
school.