I felt as if I owed Mr Sharpe an apology.
"Please," said I, "I didn't mean to do it.

The boys shoved me, and I didn't know where I was going, really, sir." Mr Sharpe seemed inclined to believe me.

He was a florid-looking, spectacled young man, with sandy whiskers, and a grip--oh that grip!-- that could have lifted me easily over the Lion Gate.
"Boys," said he, "let us have none of this nonsense, or I must set a house theme.

Is Mrs Smiley here ?" Mrs Smiley, looking anything but the "moral" of her name, appeared in due course.
"Mrs Smiley, will you please take charge of this new boy and keep him out of trouble?
Run away with Mrs Smiley, my little man; and you, boys, as soon as you have claimed your boxes, clear out till register bell." What I did my ears deceive me?
Was I, an exhibitioner, a scholar who had come up to Low Heath in all the _eclat_ of the latest "form," the friend of Tempest, the fellow who had made things too hot for himself at Dangerfield--was I, I say, to be handed over to a sort of washer-womanly person to be kept out of mischief, and called "my little man" in the presence of the whole house?
Was this my triumphant entry then?
No sooner had Mr Sharpe retired, than greetings of "My little man," "Spiteful Sarah," "Run along with his Smiley, then," beset me on all sides.

I would fain have explained and corrected any wrong impression, but they only laughed when I tried; finally, when Mrs Smiley grabbed at my hand and walked me off the scene like a baby, my humiliation was complete.
Mrs Smiley, who was far too busy with the young gentlemen's luggage to relish the extra duty put upon her by Mr Sharpe, had a very summary way of dealing with cases of my kind.
"Sit down there, and don't move till you're told," said she, pointing to a little three-legged stool in a corner in the box-room.
"But--" began I.
"Hold your tongue; how dare you speak to me ?" she retorted.
"I only--" "Stand in the corner, with your hands behind you, for disobedience," said she.
This was getting serious.