Passage A

‘What’ll you tell him?’ Izram asked when they found themselves outside Mr Drummond’s door.
Lan noted the use of the singular pronoun. ‘You’ not ‘we’: obviously Izram expected him to do all the other talking.  He tried to look confident and unconcerned.
‘Depends on what he asks me, doesn’t it?’
‘He’ll ask you about your Big Idea.’
‘I know.’
‘He’ll ask you who’s on the team.’
‘I know.’
‘He’ll ask you what your’re going to play with.  And who we’re going to play against.  He’ll ask you. . .’
‘Jeez, Iz, stop telling me what he’ll ask, okay?’  Lan hissed, ‘You’re making me nervous.’

The door opened.  It was Mr Drummond.  ‘What’s going on out here?  Oh, it’s you, Lan.  And Izram. . . isn’t it?  Right, well you can wait outside while this young man and I have a chat.’
‘Please sir, if it’s about my multicultural idea then Iz is sort of in it too, Sir.’

Mr Drummond looked from one to the other. 
‘Iz is helping me organise things, sir,’ Lan said, pleased with the word organise, which had suddenly popped into his head. It certainly made him sound as if he knew what he was doing.

It seemed to convince Mr Drummond. ‘All right. Come in.  Shut the door.’

He sat down behind his desk. ‘Pull up a chair,’ he invited.

Lan and Izram looked at each other.  Neither of them had ever been invited to sit down before.

‘So’, Mr Drummond said when they were seated, ‘what’s this I hear about a cricket match?’
Lan took a deep breath. ‘Well, this is my idea.’
(Starke, R., Nips X1, pp.38-9)

Passage B

Rowan wet his lips.  “You wished to speak with me, Sheba?” he asked.
“Why would I wish to speak with you?”  the old woman sneered. “Those fools in the
in the village might think you are a great hero.  They might think you have things of  importance to say.  But I know better.  Oh, yes!”  Her brown teeth gleamed in the firelight as she grinned.

Rowan said nothing.  Sheba had done her best to shake him, and she had succeeded,
But he was determined not to let her win this battle of nerves.  The silence lengthened.
The fire crackled.  Rowan’s head swam with the heat.

At last Sheba moved impatiently in her chair.  “Do you dare play games with me, boy?” she rasped.  “Do you not know by now that I could crack you like a nut if I chose?”

She snorted as Rowan kept silence.  “Have you begun to believe the tales they tell of you?” she sneered. “You dreamer!”  Why, without me you would be nothing.  Nothing!  You have always been nothing but my instrument, following my instructions.”

“I know that, Sheba,” Rowan said hastily, even as it flashed into his mind that what she said was not quite true.
“Liar!” Sheba hissed, and Rowan’s chest tightened as he realised that she had read his mind.  As he began to stammer explanations, she spat viciously into the fire.

“Do you think I am a fool, that you try to flatter me, agreeing with me when you do not believe?” she demanded. “You are just like all the rest.  Ungrateful and ignorant.  plotting and planning behind my back.  Well, I will show you all!”
(Rodda, R.: Rowan of the Bukshah, pp.20-21