Ribblestrop Read Free

clothes are tailor-made. But he’s not a show-off, honestly.” Ruskin lowered his voice and leaned in over the table. “The reason he’s at Ribblestrop is so no one can find him. He keeps a gun under his bed, just in case: there’s a little hole in the wall. Seriously. Dr. Norcross-Webb knows his father, and my father thinks that’s where the first lot of money came from. You see, nobody would dream a boy like Sanchez would go to a school like Ribblestrop. So he’s safe.”

Chapter Two
    It was at this point that Sam experienced his second accident of the day. He was destined to suffer three. It was not serious in itself, but it would set off a chain of interesting events. Ruskin had the dangerous habit of resting his eyes on occasions. This involved removing and pocketing his glasses—he’d been advised to do this by a teacher who’d despaired of the boy’s painfully slow reading. The effect of this “eye-resting” was that for short periods Ruskin was almost blind. He would grope and grab—and that could be lethal. He was now seeking to pour more tea.
    The same complex ritual started: tea bag and cup, spoon to tea bag, hot-water flask standing by. Sam went to finish the cup he’d hardly touched: there was a flurry of hands as Ruskin tried to organize the table, and the large, heavy flask inevitably tipped over. A lake of boiling water swept wavelike over the edge of the train table onto Sam’s shorts. He suppressed the scream, turning it into a long high-pitched gasp. Ruskin grabbed at the flask, upsetting the cup. Thus the wave was joined by a short geyser and Sam gasped again. Ruskin rushed to help. But what could he do? Sam’s thighs and tender regions sizzled in scalding water; the boy fought to keep cloth from flesh.
    â€œThis is totally my fault,” cried Ruskin. “I cannot believe this.”
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    â€œIt’s not. Hang on . . . glasses. Hold on, Sam. Oh my word, you’re soaking!”
    â€œOh no.” Sam was whispering.
    â€œAre you burned? I’m so sorry . . .”
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    â€œStand up, Sam. No, sit down. Oh my! Have you any spare shorts?”
    â€œNo. I only . . . Ow. Help.”
    â€œLook. I have. They’re in my trunk, which is down in the—”
    â€œI think I’ll stand up.”
    â€œYou’re completely red, look at your legs! Should I stop the train?”
    Ruskin flapped while Sam dabbed at himself with two soaking handkerchiefs. He was feeling sick again and the fire round his thighs was fading to hot clamminess. The seat was wet as well.
    â€œSuch bad luck. Look, let’s go down to the baggage car and see if my trunk can be got at. Then you can have my spares—and I’ve got a towel as well. Can you walk?”
    Sam peeled himself off the seat and stood dripping in the aisle. A handful of other passengers were staring, icily, as if the boys were seeking attention.
    â€œI’d better take our stuff. Follow me.”
    Ruskin packed the bags and, when he’d done so, Sam managed a bow-legged, dripping hobble down the carriage. The first toilet was engaged, but the second one was vacant. Sam dried himself as best he could and emerged slowly.
    â€œI’m a clumsy oaf,” said Ruskin. “I do apologize.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    â€œFollow me. I’m fairly sure we can get at my trunk—it’s in the baggage car, which is right down the end. If we can get to it, we can do a quick change; I mean obviously they’ll be a bit big, but you’re wearing a belt. If it was the other way round we wouldn’t stand a chance—oh my word, look!”
    Sam was still prying wet cloth from his thighs, so he didn’t look up. The dividing door closed as Ruskin barged excitedly forward, and Sam’s thin body was crushed in the steel frame. An