Then comes another type—the youthful parent. Usually he brings his wife with him. He is barely forty, and has not been near a school since he left his own twenty years ago. His wife is pretty, and not thirty-five. Both feel horribly juvenile in the presence of the Head. They listen deferentially to the great man's pontifical observations upon the requirements of modern education, and answer his queries as to their firstborn's age and attainments with trembling exactitude.
"I think we shall be able to lick him into shape," concludes the Head, with gracious jocularity. It is mere child's play to him, handling parents of this type.
Then the male bird plucks up courage, and timidly asks a leading question. The Head smiles.
"Ah!" he remarks. "Now you are laying an invidious task upon me. Who am I, to discriminate between my colleagues' Houses?"
The young parents apologise precipitately, but the Head says there is no need. In fact, he goes so far as to recommend a House—in strict confidence.
"Between ourselves," he says, "I consider that the man here at the present moment is Mr. Rotterson. Send your boy to him. I believe he has a vacancy for next term, but you had better see him at once. I will give you a note for him now. There you are! Good morning!"
Off hurry the anxious pair. But the telephone outstrips them.
"Is that you, Rotterson?" says the Head. "I
have just despatched a brace of parents to you. Impress them! There are prospects of more to-morrow, so with any luck we ought to be able to pull up your numbers to a decent level after all."