Unfortunately, Crowe and Gooding could do nothing but imitate the “Two Macs,” so they lost their chance for that evening; and then Leonard Brightwin took his place on the stage and recited Antony’s great speech from Julius Cæsar.
I had been very uneasy as my turn approached for various reasons, because, curiously enough, the only things I knew by heart were purely religious, and learned long ago in my schooldays. In a few minutes, however, my anxieties were drowned in the joy of listening to Leonard Brightwin, who spoke with great force and feeling and accompanied his words with most appropriate expressions of the face. I felt that here was one who would certainly make the rest of us look very small.
Mr. Merridew was pleased but guarded.
“Quite good,” he said. “A thousand faults, Mr. Brightwin, a thousand faults; but there’s ore in the mine and we shall bring it to the surface presently.”
I congratulated Brightwin at this high praise, and he was evidently much pleased. He started to explain his view of Mark Antony to Mr. Smith, when the professor, who had begun to tire and yawn several times, called upon me.
“Mr. Corkey, please; and be brief, Mr. Corkey, for the lesson has been quite long enough.”
“I must tell you, sir,” I said firmly, “that I only perfectly know ‘My Duty to my Neighbour.’”
Dexter laughed, as I knew he would, but Mr. Merridew by no means laughed.
“You could not know anything better, Mr. Corkey,” he answered, “but words hallowed by—by sacred memories and—and—in fact—no. It will do for the moment if you just give us the alphabet—speaking slowly and distinctly, putting character and feeling into the letters. In fact, make them interesting.”
I stared in my great ignorance before this amazing man. I felt that it was quite beyond my power to make the alphabet interesting, or put character and feeling into the letters; and I told him so honestly. I said: