‘My word,’ said Smithson minor in a rather awed voice, ‘you did answer him back.’
‘Of course I did,’ said Quentin. ‘Don’t you answer when you’re spoken to?’
Smithson minor informed the interested school that the new chap was a prig, but he had a cool cheek, and that some sport might be expected.
After supper the boys had half an hour’s recreation. Quentin, who was tired, picked up a book which a big boy had just put down. It was the Midsummer Night’s Dream.
‘Hi, you kid,’ said the big boy, ‘don’t pretend you read Shakespeare for fun. That’s simple swank, you know.’
‘I don’t know what swank is,’ said Quentin, ‘but I like the Midsummer whoever wrote it.’
‘Whoever what?’
‘Well,’ said Quentin, ‘there’s a good deal to be said for its being Bacon who wrote the plays.’
Of course that settled it. From that moment, he was called not de Ward, which was strange enough, but Bacon. He rather liked that. But the next day it was Pork, and the day after Pig, and that was unbearable.
He was at the bottom of his class, for he [p66 knew no Latin as it is taught in schools, only odd words that English words come from, and some Latin words that are used in science. And I cannot pretend that his arithmetic was anything but contemptible.