“Well, sir,” said he, “I’m no scholar. But whatever you think right, I am agreeable to.”
I bowed him out, and returned to the chairman: “Says he is no scholar, Mr. Chairman?”
“What, John B.? No, he can’t read or write.”
I roared. A cricket team would have been more particular in choosing a scorer. Would I mind calling on the erring elder, and on William C.? Not at all. We sallied forth and sought them. The affiliated elder was not at home. William C. was haymaking: he was old and deaf, and the chairman reproached him in stentorian tones:
“Why, William, you did promise me to come down to mine[22] to meet the Inspector, if you never came again.”
The old man grinned, and shook hands, and excused himself: “Yu see, sir, I’ve a dale of hay out, and I’m a bit hard of hearin, and they du all talk at once.”
I gave him plenary absolution, and asked his consent to the better site. Whatever I thought right, he was agreeable to. And we parted the best of friends. I had tea at the farm, and went back home. I laughed all the way to the station, and in the train, and I laughed in the small hours of the night. And I recalled how I once went with a colleague to see “The Tempest.” At the end of the first Act he turned in his stall and said:
“Did you ever consider what admirable materials for a School Board they had on that island? Look here:” and he showed me his annotated programme.
“Prospero, Tory Landlord, expert in Elementary Science, and Language, which he taught to Caliban.
Miranda, qualified by entire ignorance to superintend the Girls’ sewing.