‘No, sir, I want to answer.’
‘What did I say I’d do if you got up again?’
‘You said you would cane me and peel the skin off my knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.’
‘All right, come here.’
Swaminathan left his seat joyfully and hopped onto the platform. The teacher took out his cane from the drawer and shouted angrily, ‘Open your hand, you little devil.’
He whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm. Swami received them without blenching. After half a dozen the teacher asked, ‘Will these do, or do you want some more?’
Swami merely held out his hand again and received two more; and the bell rang. Swami jumped down from the platform with a light heart, though his hands were smarting. He picked up his books, took out the letter lying in his pocket, and ran to the headmaster’s room. He found the door locked.
He asked the peon, ‘Where is the headmaster?’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘My father has sent a letter for him.’
‘He has taken the afternoon off and won’t come back for a week. You can give the letter to the assistant headmaster. He will be here now.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Your teacher, Samuel. He will be here in a second.’
Swaminathan fled from the place. As soon as Swami went home with the letter, Father remarked, ‘I knew you wouldn’t deliver it, you coward.’
‘I swear our headmaster is on leave,’ Swaminathan began.
Father replied, ‘Don’t lie in addition to being a coward…’
Swami held up the envelope and said, ‘I will give this to the headmaster as soon as he is back.’ Father snatched it from his hand, tore it up and thrust it into the waste-paper basket under his table. He muttered, ‘Don’t come to me for help even if Samuel throttles you. You deserve your Samuel.’
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