There was quite a sensation during this little episode. Miss Lambent
whispering to her sister, who nodded and shook her head, Mrs Canninge
looking with raised eyebrows at the first class through her gold-rimmed
glasses, and little Miss Burge furiously shaking her fat forefinger at
"that naughty child." There was a hearty laugh on its way to George
Canninge's lips, but, seeing the pain the chatter was causing Hazel, he
checked his mirth and remained serious.

Mr Barracombe seemed to be in doubt as to whether he ought not to expel
Feelier Potts there and then, and as she resumed her place he frowned at
her severely, the culprit looking up at him with a most mild and
innocent aspect, till he turned his gaze upon another pupil, when
Feelier began nodding at Ann Straggalls and uttering whispered menaces
of what she would do as soon as they were out of school.

Then all eyes were turned to the inspector, who unfolded some printed
blue papers, and after coughing to clear his voice, searched in his
waistcoat pocket, and brought out a gold pencil-case, which required a
good deal of screwing about before it would condescend to mark. Having
pinched his nose between his glasses, he commenced examining the
needlework, of which he was evidently a good judge, and doubtless knew
the difference between hemming, stitching, tacking, herring-boning, and
the other mysterious processes by which cloth, calico, and other woven
fabrics are held together.

Then there was an entry made upon the blue paper, and the inspector
looked severely through his glasses at Ann Straggalls.

"Can you tell me, my good girl, how many yards of long-cloth would be
required for a full-sized shirt?"

Ann Straggalls allowed her jaw to drop and stood staring hard at the
querist for a few moments, and then, like that certain man in the
scriptural battle, she drew a bow at a venture, but she failed to hit
the useful under garment in question, for she eagerly replied "twelve."

"Next girl," said the inspector.

"Eight."

"Next girl."

"Sixteen."

"Next."

"Twenty."

"Next. How many yards of long-cloth would be required for a full-sized
shirt?"

The next was Feelier Potts, whose eyes were twinkling as she answered--

"Mother always makes father's of calico."

"Very good, my girl; then tell me how many yards it would take."

"Night shirt or day shirt?" cried Feelier sharply.

"Day shirt," replied the inspector severely; and George Canninge beca