"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. The little three-legged stool would not have been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really too bad. The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk. So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner, with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall- paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to the _Times_ about the whole business. I could not help thinking that Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account. I was conscious of box after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little encouragement from my studiously averted head. After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses began to rise within me. I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence. "Now, young gentleman, this way, please." And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I surmised to be her particular sanctum. "What's your name?" "Jones," said I. "Ah--you're the boy who's brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and loud striped shirts--eh?" "Well, yes," said I.