the schoolroom, and from the
schoolroom to the dining-room, and from the dining-room to the boot-
room, and my duties were explained in each.

It was in the latter apartment that I first made the acquaintance of one
of my fellow "troublesome or backwards."

A biggish boy was adopting the novel expedient for getting on a tight
boot of turning his back to the wall and kicking out at it like a horse
when I and my conductress entered.

The latter very nearly came in for one of the kicks.

"Flanagan," said she, "that is not allowed. I shall give you a bad mark
for it."

Flanagan went on kicking till the end of the sentence, and then subsided
ruefully, and said, "The bothering thing won't come on or off, please,
ma'am. It won't come on with shoving."

"If your boots are too small," replied the lady, solemnly, begging the
question, "you must write home for new ones."

"But the bothering things--"

"Batchelor," said Miss Henniker, turning to me, "this is the boot-room,
where you will have to put on and take off your boots whenever you go
out or come in. This boy is going out, and will take you into the
playground with him," and away she went, leaving me in the hands of the
volatile Flanagan.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

It was a horribly dark place, this boot-room, and I could scarcely see
who it was who was questioning me. He seemed to be a big boy, a year or
two older than myself, with a face which, as far as I could make it out,
was not altogether unpleasant. He continued stamping with his
refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out
occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.

"Who are you? What's your name?" he said.

"Fred Batchelor," I replied, deferentially.

"Batchelor, eh? Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?"

This was a poser. I had never put the question to myself, and was
wholly at a loss how to answer. I told Flanagan so.

"Oh, but you're _bound_ to know!" he exclaimed. "What did they send you
here for, eh?"

Whereupon I was drawn out to narrate, greatly to Flanagan's
satisfaction, the affair of Cad Prog and his baby sister.

"Hurrah!" said he, when I had done. "Hurrah, you're a troublesome!
That makes seven troublesomes, and only two backwards!" and in his
jubilation he gave a specially vigorous kick out behind, and finally
drove the obstinate boot home.

"Yes," said he, "there was no end of discussion about it. I was afraid
you were a backward, th