Caleb rose from his knees and, fortified by his prayers, succeeded this time in passing the open door of Letizia’s bedroom without so much as one swift glance within. He came down to the basement and with a good deal of complacency gloated over the sight of those children all so beautifully hard at work. He would have liked to tell them how lucky they were to be in the care of somebody who took all this trouble to rouse them early and teach them the joys of industry. The thought of how many more composition stars would be made to-day than were made yesterday was invigorating. He regarded the tousled heads of the apprentices with something like good-will. “That’s the way, boys, work hard and well and in three hours you’ll be enjoying your breakfast,” he promised. Then suddenly he looked sharply round the room. “Why, where’s Arthur Wellington?” At this moment the foundling thus christened, a fair-haired child of eleven, appeared timidly in the doorway, and shrank back in terror when his master demanded where he had been. “Please, Mr. Fuller, I was looking for my shoe,” he stammered, breathing very fast. “Oh, you were looking for your shoe, were you, Arthur Wellington? And did you find your shoe?” “No, Mr. Fuller,” the boy choked. “I think it must have fell out of the window.” His blue eyes were fixed reproachfully, anxiously, pleadingly, on Joe Hilton the eldest apprentice who bent lower over his task of damping with methylated spirit the composition for the stars, the while he managed to scowl sideways at Arthur. “So you’ve been loitering about in your room while your companions have been hard at work, Arthur Wellington?” “I haven’t been loitering. I’ve been looking for my shoe.” “Contradict me, will you, Arthur Wellington?” said Caleb softly. “Show me your other shoe. Come nearer, Arthur. Nearer. Take it off and give it to me.” The boy approached, breathing faster; but he still hesitated to take off the shoe. “Don’t keep me waiting, Arthur,” Caleb said. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough this lovely summer morning. Give me the shoe.” Arthur did as he was told. “Don’t go away, Arthur Wellington. I’m talking to you for your good. This lovely summer morning, I said. Perhaps you didn’t hear me? Eh? Perhaps you’re deaf? Deaf, are you, you workhouse brat?” Caleb gripped the boy’s puny shoulder and banged him several times on the head with the shoe. “Perhaps you won’t be so deaf when I’ve knocked some of the deafness out of you,” he growled. “Blubbering now, eh, you miserable little bastard? Look up, will you! Look up, I say! Oh, very well, look down,” and Caleb pushed the boy’s head between his own legs and thrashed him with the first weapon that came to hand, which was a bundle of rocket-sticks.