“I wonder if he’s young or old,” said Samouīl.
“You little fool,” muttered Dikran, “you may depend upon it that no man of experience would leave Europe to come out and bury himself in a hole like this; I bet he’s a greenhorn with just five hairs on his chin.”
“I’ve seen his photograph,” announced Aram, with the air of a judge revealing a state secret.
A dozen voices cried out at once:
“What is he like? What is he like?”
Aram straightened up with an air of importance:
“This morning I was in the president’s office to show him the pensum he gave me yesterday; I was looking around at his books and his desk, and there I stopped, as I noticed a photograph half hidden by a pile of letters. I peeped, I stood an tiptoe, but couldn’t manage to see a thing. All at once Mrs. Mills called out, ‘Dearie, come and get a piece of cake.’ Dearie didn’t wait to be called twice. ‘Wait here for me a moment,’ said he, ‘some one is calling me,’ and as soon as he had closed the door I pounced on the photograph. It was the picture of a nice, slender young man, and he had written at the top: Henri Bernier. I had barely time to put it back before the president came back.”
The boys quite envied Aram for having seen the new master before his arrival, and since they had the afternoon free they decided to go out and meet him in a body. Aram was the only dissenter:
“Oh, no! I shan’t go; I shall see him soon enough. I haven’t time, anyhow; Garabed and I are going to town with Archag to help him choose a suit of clothes.”
“Do you hear that?” whispered Dikran in his cousin’s ear. “The young savage is getting civilized; not a bad idea. He won’t disgrace us all, next time we are invited to the president’s house.”