When I first went down, Mr Rebble was the only assistant the doctor had; but I soon learned that the French master came twice a week from Rye, that the other usher had left to go into partnership with a friend in a school at Lewes, and that another was coming in a few days.
The Doctor was one of my informants, for, after passing me through a general examination as to my capabilities, he told me that I was in a most hopeless state of ignorance, and that as soon as the assistant master, Mr Hasnip, arrived, I should have to go under his special charge.
“For we can’t have boys like you, Burr junior,” he said smiling. “I don’t know what would become of my establishment if many were as backward as you.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” I said humbly.
“I am glad you are,” he said; “for that means repentance for neglected opportunities, and, of course, a stern determination to make up for lost time.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll try,” I said.
“That’s right, and try hard. Your English is very weak; your Latin terribly deficient; your writing execrable; and your mathematics absolutely hopeless. There, go back to your place and work hard, my boy—work hard.”
I descended from the daïs, with the eyes of the whole school upon me, and, as I walked between the two rows of forms, I could hear whispered remarks intended for me, and it was with a feeling of despair that I reseated myself, opened my desk and took out my Latin grammar, to begin turning over the leaves, looking hopelessly at the declensions and conjugations, with the exceptions and notes.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Mercer, who just then returned from Mr Rebble’s end, where he had made one of a class in Euclid.
“Doctor says I’m so terribly behindhand that he is ashamed of me.”