“But I can’t teach any of those things!”
“Look here,” said Blendershin, and paused. “Has your wife or you a private income?”
“No,” said Lewisham.
“Well?”
A pause of further moral descent, and a whack against an obstacle. “But they will find me out,” said Lewisham.
Blendershin smiled. “It’s not so much ability as willingness to teach, you know. And they won’t find you out. The sort of schoolmaster we deal with can’t find anything out. He can’t teach any of these things himself—and consequently he doesn’t believe they can be taught. Talk to him of pedagogics and he talks of practical experience. But he puts ’em on his prospectus, you know, and he wants ‘em on his time-table. Some of these subjects—There’s commercial geography, for instance. What is commercial geography?”
“Barilla,” said the assistant, biting the end of his pen, and added pensively, “and blethers.”
“Fad,” said Blendershin, “Just fad. Newspapers talk rot about commercial education, Duke of Devonshire catches on and talks ditto—pretends he thought it himself—much he cares—parents get hold of it—schoolmasters obliged to put something down, consequently assistants must. And that’s the end of the matter!”
“All right,” said Lewisham, catching his breath in a faint sob of shame, “Stick ’em down. But mind—a non-resident place.”
“Well,” said Blendershin, “your science may pull you through. But I tell you it’s hard. Some grant-earning grammar school may want that. And that’s about all, I think. Make a note of the address....”