The small girl extended her hand, and accepting a couple, inspected them carefully. “You’re a bad, wicked boy!” she said seriously as she bit into one. “You’ll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!” “Who’s Miss Dimchurch?” inquired Henry with pardonable curiosity. “Schoolmistress,” said the small girl. “Is this a school?” said Henry. The small girl, her mouth full of apple, nodded. “Any men here?” inquired Henry with an assumed carelessness. The small girl shook her head. “You’re the only boy I’ve ever seen here,” she said gleefully. “You’ll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!” His mind relieved of a great fear, Henry leaned back and smiled confidently. “I’m not afraid of the old girl,” he said quietly, as he pulled out his pipe and filled it. The small girl’s eyes glistened with admiration. “I wish I was a boy,” she said plaintively, “then I shouldn’t mind her. Are you a sailor-boy?” “Sailor,” corrected Henry; “yes.” “I like sailors,” said the small girl amicably. “You may have a bite of my apple if you like.” “Never mind, thanks,” said Henry hastily; “I’ve got a clean one here.” The small girl drew herself up and eyed him haughtily, but finding that he was not looking at her resumed her apple. “What’s your name?” she asked. “’Enery Hatkins,” replied the youth, as he remembered sundry cautions about the letter _h_ he had received at school. “What’s yours?” “Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt,” said the small girl, sitting up straighter to say it. “I don’t like the name of Atkins.” “Don’t you?” said Henry, trying not to show resentment. “I don’t like Gertrude, or Ursula, or Florence, and Harcourt’s the worst of all.” Miss Harcourt drew off three or four inches and drummed with the tips of her fingers on the table. “I don’t care what you like,” she said humming. “I like Gerty,” said Henry with the air of a connoisseur, as he looked at the small flushed face. “I think Gerty’s very pretty.” “That’s what they always call me,” said Miss Harcourt carelessly. “Does your ship go right out to sea?” “Yes,” said the boy. They had been blown out to sea once, and he salved his conscience with that. “And how many times,” said Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt, getting nearer to him again, “have you had fights with pirates?” She left absolutely no loophole. If she had asked him whether he had ever fought pirates he would have said “No,” though that would have been hard with her little excitable face turned towards his and the dark blue eyes dancing with interest. “I forget whether it was six or seven,” said Henry Atkins. “I think it was only six.” “Tell us all about them,” said Miss Harcourt, shifting with excitement.