"If he would only begin," thought Tom, "I shouldn't mind." At last the whispering ceased, and the name which was called out was not Brown.

He looked up for a moment, but the Doctor's face was too awful; Tom wouldn't have met his eye for all he was worth, and buried himself in his book again.
The boy who was called up first was a clever, merry School-house boy, one of their set; he was some connection of the Doctor's, and a great favourite, and ran in and out of his house as he liked, and so was selected for the first victim.
"Triste lupus stabulis," began the luckless youngster, and stammered through some eight or ten lines.
"There, that will do," said the Doctor; "now construe." On common occasions the boy could have construed the passage well enough probably, but now his head was gone.
"Triste lupus, the sorrowful wolf," he began.
A shudder ran through the whole form, and the Doctor's wrath fairly boiled over.

He made three steps up to the construer, and gave him a good box on the ear.

The blow was not a hard one, but the boy was so taken by surprise that he started back; the form caught the back of his knees, and over he went on to the floor behind.

There was a dead silence over the whole school.