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‘Now, Carey, you tell them.’
The good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr.
Gordon’s indignation. One day it came to Philip’s turn to
translate, and the master sat there glaring at him and furi-
ously biting his thumb. He was in a ferocious mood. Philip
began to speak in a low voice.
‘Don’t mumble,’ shouted the master.
Something seemed to stick in Philip’s throat.
‘Go on. Go on. Go on.’
Each time the words were screamed more loudly. The ef-
fect was to drive all he knew out of Philip’s head, and he
looked at the printed page vacantly. Mr. Gordon began to
breathe heavily.
‘If you don’t know why don’t you say so? Do you know
it or not? Did you hear all this construed last time or not?
Why don’t you speak? Speak, you blockhead, speak!’
The master seized the arms of his chair and grasped
them as though to prevent himself from falling upon Philip.
They knew that in past days he often used to seize boys by
the throat till they almost choked. The veins in his forehead
stood out and his face grew dark and threatening. He was
a man insane.
Philip had known the passage perfectly the day before,
but now he could remember nothing.
‘I don’t know it,’ he gasped.
‘Why don’t you know it? Let’s take the words one by one.
We’ll soon see if you don’t know it.’
Philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his
head bent down on the book. The master’s breathing grew