I stole quietly to a seat behind a pillar.

Fred Hencoop was drawing something on the board, and explaining it.

As he drew back and pointed with the long stick, I saw a splendid caricature of myself pursuing a small dog with a muff, while a young lady sat quietly in a mud-puddle in the corner of the black-board, and Fred was saying, with intense gravity: "This is the man, all tattered and torn, that spattered the maiden all forlorn.

_This_ is the dog that stole the muff.

_This_ is the ring he sent the maid--" "Muff-in ring," suggested some one, and then they laughed louder than ever.
I felt that that singing-school was no place for me that evening, and I stole away as noiselessly as I had entered.
I went home and packed my trunk.