“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” chuckled Walter and his sister. “Try again.”
“I’m very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite of you; but I’ll look again. No, there can be no doubt about it. Several of those faces show talent, but one only has a look of genius, and that is the face of the boy I pointed out before. What is his name?”
“Oh, that’s Home. He’s clever enough in his way, but the fellow you ought to have picked out is the monitor I fag for—Bruce, the head of the school.”
“Well, show me your hero.”
“There he sits, right in the middle of them, opposite us. There, that’s he just going to speak now.”
He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look of infinite self-confidence, who at that moment made a low bow to the assembly, and then began to recite with much force a splendid burst of oratory from one of Burke’s great speeches; which he did with the air of one who had no doubt that Burke himself might have studied with benefit the scorn which he flung into his invective and the Olympian grace with which he waved his arm. A burst of applause followed the conclusion of his recitation, during which Bruce took his seat with a look of unconcealed delight and triumph.
“There, papa—what do you think of that? Wasn’t I right now?” said the young Hartonian, whose name was Walter Thornley.
But the old gentleman’s only answer was a quiet smile, and he had not joined in the general clapping. “Is Home to take any part in the speeches?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes! He’s got some part or other in one of the Shakespeare scenes; but he won’t do it half as well as Bruce.”
“I observe he’s got several of the prizes.”