One day they would hide poor Jenny's spectacles, and then when search was made the lost treasure would be found in some one else's desk.

Or they would tie cotton reels on the four feet and tail of the old tabby cat, and launch her, with a horrid clatter, right into the middle of the room, just as I or one of the others happened to be scampering out.

Or they would turn the little boys' forms upside down, and compel them with terrible threats to sit on the iron feet, and then in the middle of the class "sneak" about them.
Poor Jenny couldn't manage the school at all, with such boys as Jimmy Bates and Joe Bobbins in it.

Up to boys of ten she was all right; but over ten she was all at sea.
However, she worked patiently on, and taught us all she could, and once or twice gave us a horrible fright by calling up at our houses, and reporting progress there (Mrs Hudson always received her when she came up to my uncle's).

And for all I know I might be at Jenny Wren's school still if a tremendous event hadn't happened in our village, which utterly upset the oldest established customs of Brownstroke.
We grammar-school boys never "hit" it exactly with the other town boys.
Either they were jealous of us or we were jealous of them.