The voice of Rupert Filgee came sharply to the master's astonished ears.
"You needn't try to play off Dobell or Mitchell on ME--you hear! Much YOU know of either, don't you?
Look at that copy.

If Johnny couldn't do better than that, I'd lick him.

Of course it's the pen--it ain't your stodgy fingers--oh, no! P'r'aps you'd like to hev a few more boxes o' quills and gold pens and Gillott's best thrown in, for two bits a lesson?
I tell you what! I'll throw up the contract in another minit! There goes another quill busted! Look here, what YOU want ain't a pen, but a clothes-pin and a split nail! That'll about jibe with your dilikit gait." The master at once stepped to the window and, unobserved, took a quick survey of the interior.

Following some ingenious idea of his own regarding fitness, the beautiful Filgee had induced Uncle Ben to seat himself on the floor before one of the smallest desks, presumably his brother's, in an attitude which, while it certainly gave him considerable elbow-room for those contortions common to immature penmanship, offered his youthful instructor a superior eminence, from which he hovered, occasionally swooping down upon his grown-up pupil like a mischievous but graceful jay.

But Mr.Ford's most distinct impression was that, far from resenting the derogatory position and the abuse that accompanied it, Uncle Ben not only beamed upon his persecutor with unquenchable good humor, but with undisguised admiration, and showed not the slightest inclination to accept his proposed resignation.
"Go slow, Roop," he said cheerfully.