wash-leather. He wondered what the things were. By this time he was so
much stunned that he only noticed the outside things.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably pointing Mrs. Morel to a
horse-hair chair. She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion. Then the
little old man fidgeted and found a paper.
"Did you write this letter?" he snapped, thrusting what Paul recognised
as his own notepaper in front of him.
"Yes," he answered.
At that moment he was occupied in two ways: first, in feeling guilty
for telling a lie, since William had composed the letter; second, in
wondering why his letter seemed so strange and different, in the fat,
red hand of the man, from what it had been when it lay on the kitchen
table. It was like part of himself, gone astray. He resented the way the
man held it.
"Where did you learn to write?" said the old man crossly.
Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and did not answer.
"He IS a bad writer," put in Mrs. Morel apologetically. Then she pushed
up her veil. Paul hated her for not being prouder with this common
little man, and he loved her face clear of the veil.
"And you say you know French?" inquired the little man, still sharply.
"Yes," said Paul.
"What school did you go to?"
"The Board-school."
"And did you learn it there?"
"No--I--" The boy went crimson and got no farther.
"His godfather gave him lessons," said Mrs. Morel, half pleading and
rather distant.
Mr. Jordan hesitated. Then, in his irritable manner--he always seemed to
keep his hands ready for action--he pulled another sheet of paper from
his pocket, unfolded it. The paper made a crackling noise. He handed it
to Paul.
"Read that," he said.
It was a note in French, in thin, flimsy foreign handwriting that the
boy could not decipher. He stared blankly at the paper.
"'Monsieur,'" he began; then he looked in great confusion at Mr. Jordan.
"It's the--it's the--"
He wanted to say "handwriting", but his wits would no longer work even
sufficiently to supply him with the word. Feeling an utter fool, and
hating Mr. Jordan, he turned desperately to the paper again.
"'Sir,--Please send me'--er--er--I can't tell the--er--'two pairs--gris
fil bas--grey thread stockings'--er--er--'sans--without'--er--I can't
tell the words--er--'doigts--fingers'--er--I can't tell the--"
He wanted to say "handwriting", but the word still refused to come.
Seeing him stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from him.
"'Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without TOES.'"
"Well," flashed Paul, "'doigts' means 'fingers'--as well--as a rule--"
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