And, while the chairman was actually penning his reply to the duke, one wet November afternoon, Mr. Plummer and Mr. Bent were once more pacing the “Ushers’ Grind” in mackintoshes. A steady drizzle had damped their fighting spirit, and taunts that usually kindled flames had only produced a perfunctory fizzle. At last Mr. Plummer said:
“I’m afraid the boys haven’t a great respect for Flaggon.”
“I shouldn’t take Chowdler too seriously,” said Mr. Bent.
“I didn’t say Chowdler,” replied his companion; “I said the boys.”
“I know you did,” said Mr. Bent. “And I said Chowdler, because I bet that he has been telling you his story of the week—we have all heard it—to wit, how little Simpkin looked up at him with a wistful smile and said, ‘Sir, do you think the new headmaster understands anything about boys?’”
“Suppose he did!” said Mr. Plummer defiantly. “What then?”
“Only,” replied Mr. Bent, “that it isn’t a very likely thing for a boy to say, on his own. I know little Simpkin; he’s in my Form. All Chowdler’s pets are in my Form. A nasty, greasy, oily little beast. He tried ‘the wistful’ on with me once, but never again.”
“The fact that you think him oily and greasy,” retorted Mr. Plummer, “is no proof that he didn’t say it.”
“I never said it was,” cried Mr. Bent, raising his voice, “and I don’t doubt that little Simpkin did say it and will say it again till he gets another cue. What does amaze me is that, with all his experience, Chowdler has never learned that boys encourage us in our illusions by quoting at us our own pet ideas and phrases. It isn’t conscious hypocrisy—merely an instinct of self-preservation, or an amiable desire to please. They approach us, as we should approach some beast of uncertain temper, with the sounds that experience has shown to be most soothing.”
“So you have said before,” snorted Mr. Plummer. “But, anyhow, you admit that Chowdler has experience; and Flaggon has none.”