The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear.
— Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class?
He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees.
— Hoho! he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is your name, boy?
— Fleming, sir.
— Hoho, Fleming! An idler of course. I can see it in your eye. Why is he on his knees, Father Arnall?
— He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnall said, and he missed all the questions in grammar.
— Of course he did! cried the prefect of studies, of course he did! A born idler! I can see it in the corner of his eye.
He banged his pandybat down on the desk and cried:
— Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!
Fleming stood up slowly.
— Hold out! cried the prefect of studies.
Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six.
— Other hand!
The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.
— Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.
