That worthy pedagogue assured Mrs. McKenzie that her hopeful would be well looked after and that his morals would not necessarily be contaminated by association with his scholars, and he mentally wondered how it was that all mothers imagined their own children were lambs and those of others, wolves and jackals. Twenty years of driving the rudiments of knowledge into the thick and stubborn skulls of Scotch youngsters had made him cynical, and he looked upon Donald as another mild-looking angel with probable devilish propensities.
Young McKenzie was given an examination to determine the grade or class he was fitted for, and surprised the examiner by his general intelligence. He was then taken and enrolled on the register of the Fifth Standard, and a saturnine male teacher gave him a number and a desk which he had to share with a shock-headed urchin who wore a blue woollen “ganzey” and “tackety” boots. Shock-head glanced over Don’s black velvet suit and white collar with ill-concealed disdain and, having taken the measure of his desk-mate, inquired huskily, “Can ye fight?”
On Donald not deigning to answer this “rude, rough boy,” Shock-head felt encouraged to try the newcomer’s spirit by a lusty jab in the ribs with his elbow. Young McKenzie returned the prod with interest, which caused Shock-head to grunt and make a swing with his fist. The eagle-eyed teacher spied the movement and haled the aggressor to the floor. Producing a snakey-looking leather strap from his pocket, Mr. Corey took a great deal of the belligerency out of Shock-head by administering six stinging blows with the strap on the culprit’s outstretched palm. “Now, sir, go to your seat and leave the new boy alone!”
Shock-head never made a whimper, but returned to his seat and endeavored to cool his injured palm by spitting and blowing on it. Such hardihood appealed to Donald and he whispered in the parlance he was supposed to eschew, “You’re a gey tough yin!” The other, still blowing, nodded and whispered with unmoved lips, “Ah’ve taken twinty swipes an’ he couldny make me greet!”
At this juncture the bell for “minutes” or recess was tolled and Donald filed out in company with Shock-head, who evidently bore no malice.
“Whit’s yer name, new fella’?”
“Donald McKenzie! What’s yours?”
“Joak McGlashan! Whaur d’ye leeve?”
“Maxwell Park! Where do you live?”
“Thurty-seevin M’Clure street an’ up three stairs. Whit does yer faither wurrk at?”