Lastly, on the telephone, I., a valetudinarian, to announce that he is suffering from double
pneumonia, and will be unable to come into School until after luncheon.
To be quite just, I. is the rarest bird of all. The average schoolmaster has a perfect passion for sticking to his work when utterly unfit for it. In this respect he differs materially from his pupil, who lies in bed in the dawning hours, cudgelling his sleepy but fertile brain for a disease which
(1) Has not been used before.
(2) Will incapacitate him for work all morning.
(3) Will not prevent him playing football in the afternoon.
But if a master sprains his ankle, he hobbles about his form-room on a crutch. If he contracts influenza, he swallows a jorum of ammoniated quinine, puts on three waistcoats, and totters into school, where he proceeds to disseminate germs among his not ungrateful charges. Even if he is rendered speechless by tonsillitis, he takes his form as usual, merely substituting written invective (chalked up on the blackboard), for the torrent of verbal abuse which he usually employs as a medium of instruction.
It is all part—perhaps an unconscious part—of his permanent pose as an apostle of what is
strenuous and praiseworthy. It is also due to a profound conviction that whoever of his colleagues is told off to take his form for him will indubitably undo the work of many years within a few hours.
Besides harrying the head and expostulating with one another, the Housemasters wage unceasing war with the teaching staff.