It is incredible how long it takes for ten boys to change their places. It was a long process. Books fell to the right and to the left. There were murmurs of "Damn you, man, that's my grammar!" or "Confound you, Benson!" "Where the hell is my dictionary?" Twice Benson had been sent flying into the waste-paper basket; three times had Dyke driven a compass into the backside of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To crown everything, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight. Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under Trundle's desk; Gordon endeavoured to get through a window that was hardly a foot square. Macdonald's class-room was just the other side of the V. A green; he chuckled to himself. "I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I think we shall have to put him on to construe when he returns. If he goes to music-hall shows in school time he must pay for it, you know."
There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder rang the noise of the French students. A question had arisen as to what book they should read that term. Everyone was shouting the name of his favourite author. "Let's do The Little Thing," yelled Dyke. "No; de Maupassant," shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: "I saw one of his books in a shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot stuff." Then louder again: "Let's have de Maupassant." "No; The Black Tulip," Lovelace implored, and went on in a stage whisper: "Now don't be silly fools, I have got a crib of this. Have some sense." "You don't imagine we're going to prepare the stuff, do you?" was Hunter's retort. Above the uproar Forbes' voice drawled: "I say, if there's a French translation of Five Nights, let's read that. I know the book pretty well by heart."
It was ultimately decided to read six contes by François Coppée; but by the time the decision had been reached, the hour had been exhausted. Rather sadly Trundle watched the set pour out into the cloister, shouting and laughing. Even masters have souls. Boys don't realise this.
Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. Sometimes Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was singing: Meet me under the Roses, while Gordon was giving a lively if inaccurate translation.
"Fletcher, stop that singing!"
"Mayn't I sing, sir?"
"Of course not. This is a class-room."
"Is it, sir? I thought it was a place of amusement."
"Fifty lines, Fletcher."
"But, sir, it is, you know——"