“I never held with his fad for teaching history,” said Mr. Dad. “He was history mad. It got worse and worse. What’s history after all? At the best, it’s over and done with.... But he wouldn’t argue upon it—not reasonably. He was—overbearing. He had a way of looking at you.... It was never our intention to make Woldingstanton into a school of history.”
“And now, Mr. Farr,” said Sir Eliphaz, “what are the particulars of the fire?”
“It isn’t for me to criticize,” said Mr. Farr.
“What I say,” said Mr. Dad, projecting his muzzle with an appearance of great determination, “is, fix responsibility. Fix responsibility. Here is a door locked that common sense dictated should be open. Who was responsible?”
“No one in School House seems to have been especially responsible for that door so far as I can ascertain,” said Mr. Farr.
“All responsibility,” said Mr. Dad, with an expression of peevish insistence, as though Mr. Farr had annoyed him, “all responsibility that is not delegated rests with the Head. That’s a hard and fast and primary rule of business organization. In my factory I say quite plainly to everyone who comes into it, man or woman, chick or child....”
Mr. Dad was still explaining in a series of imaginary dialogues, tersely but dramatically, his methods of delegating authority, when Sir Eliphaz cut across the flow with, “Returning to Mr. Huss for a moment....”
The point that Sir Eliphaz wanted to get at was whether Mr. Huss expected to continue headmaster at Woldingstanton. From some chance phrase in a letter Sir Eliphaz rather gathered that he did.
“Well,” said Mr. Farr portentously, letting the thing hang for a moment, “he does.”
“Tcha!” said Mr. Dad, and shut his mouth tightly and waved his head slowly from side to side with knitted brows as if he had bitten his tongue.