Kipps

mocked at and parodied his enormous bites of bread and butter unreproved. He became conspicuously less popular on the “fancy” side, the “costumes” was chilly with him and the “millinery” cutting. But he did not care. An intermittent correspondent with Flo Bates, that had gone on since she left Mr. Shalford’s desk for a position at Tunbridge “nearer home,” and which had roused Kipps in its earlier stages to unparalleled heights of epistolatory effort, died out altogether by reason of his neglect. He heard with scarcely a pang that, as a consequence perhaps of his neglect, Flo was “carrying on with a chap who managed a farm.”

Every Thursday he jabbed and gouged at his wood, jabbing and gouging intersecting circles and diamond traceries, and that laboured inane which our mad world calls ornament, and he watched Miss Walshingham furtively whenever she turned away. The circles in consequence were jabbed crooked; and his panels, losing their symmetry, became comparatively pleasing to the untrained eye⁠—and once he jabbed his finger. He would cheerfully have jabbed all his fingers if he could have found some means of using the opening to express himself of the vague emotions that possessed him. But he shirked conversation just as earnestly as he desired it; he feared that profound general ignorance of his might appear.

There came a time when she could not open one of the classroom windows. The man with the black beard pored over his chipping heedlessly.⁠ ⁠…

It did not take Kipps a moment to grasp his opportunity. He dropped his gouge and stepped forward. “Lem me,” he said.⁠ ⁠…

He could not open the window either!

“Oh, please don’t trouble,” she said.

“ ’Sno trouble,” he gasped.

Still the sash stuck. He felt his manhood was at stake. He gathered himself together for a tremendous effort, and the pane broke with a snap, and he thrust his hand into the void beyond.

“There!” said Miss Walshingham, and the glass fell ringing into the courtyard below.

Then Kipps made to bring his hand back, and felt the keen touch of the edge of the broken glass at his wrist. He turned dolefully. “I’m tremendously sorry,” he said in answer to the accusation in Miss Walshingham’s eyes. “I didn’t think it would break like that,”⁠—as if he had expected it to break in some quite different and entirely more satisfactory manner. The boy with the gift of woodcarving having stared at Kipps’ face for a moment, became involved in a Laocoön struggle with a giggle.

“You’ve cut your wrist,” said one of the girl friends, standing up and pointing. She was a pleasant-faced, greatly freckled girl, with a helpful disposition, and she said “You’ve cut your wrist,” as brightly as if she had been a trained nurse.

Kipps looked down, and saw a swift line of scarlet rush down his hand. He perceived the other man student regarding this with magnified eyes. “You have cut your wrist,” said Miss Walshingham, and Kipps regarded his damage with greater interest.

“He’s cut his wrist,” said the maiden lady to the lodging-house keeper, and seemed in doubt what a lady should do. “It’s⁠—” she hesitated at the word “bleeding,” and nodded to the lodging-house keeper instead.

“Dreadfully,” said the maiden lady, and tried to look and tried not to look at the same time.

“Of course he’s cut his wrist,” said the lodging-house keeper, momentarily quite annoyed at Kipps; and the other young lady, who thought Kipps rather common, went on quietly with her wood-cutting with an air of its being the proper thing to do⁠—though nobody else seemed to know it.

“You must tie it up,” said Miss Walshingham.

“We must tie it up,” said the freckled girl.

“I ’adn’t the slightest idea that window was going to break like that,” said Kipps, with candour. “Nort the slightest.”

He glanced again at the blood on his wrist, and it seemed to him that it was on the very point of dropping on the floor of that cultured classroom. So he very neatly licked it off, feeling at the same time for his handkerchief. “Oh, don’t!” said Miss Walshingham as he did so, and the girl with the freckles made a movement of horror. The giggle got the better of the boy with the gift, and celebrated its triumph by unseemly noises; in spite of which it seemed to Kipps at the moment that the act that had made Miss Walshingham say “Oh, don’t!” was rather a desperate and manly treatment of what was after all a creditable injury.

“It ought to be tied up,” said the lodging-house keeper, holding her chisel upright in her hand. “It’s a bad cut to bleed like that.”

“We must tie it up,” said the freckled girl, and hesitated in front of Kipps. “Have you got a handkerchief?” she said.

“I dunno ’ow I managed not to bring one,” said Kipps. “I⁠—Not ’aving a cold I suppose some’ow I didn’t think⁠—”

He checked a further flow of blood.

The girl with the freckles caught Miss Walshingham’s eye, and held it for a moment. Both glanced at Kipps’ injury. The boy with the gift, who had reappeared with a chastened expression from some noisy pursuit beneath his desk, made the neglected motions of one who proffers shyly. Miss Walshingham under the spell of the freckled girl’s eye produced a handkerchief. The voice of the maiden lady could be heard in the background. “I’ve been through all the technical education ambulance classes twice, and I know you go so if it’s a vein, and so if it’s an artery⁠—at least you go so for one and so for the other, whichever it may be; but.⁠ ⁠…”

“If you will give me your hand,” said the freckled girl, and proceeded with Miss Walshingham’s assistance to bandage Kipps in a most businesslike way. Yes, they actually bandaged Kipps. They pulled up his cuffs⁠—happily they were not a very frayed pair⁠—and held his wrist, and wrapped the soft handkerchief round it, and tightened the knot together. And Miss Walshingham’s face, the face of that almost divine Over-human, came close to the face of Kipps.

“We’re