All these folks came busling in and many were the pleasant and curious garbs they sported, pleeted trousers, full puffy trousers, thin trousers tied under the boot, not to mention vegetated wastcoats or no wastcoats at all with very fancy shirts like ladys blouses, and all wore or carried hats such as were never I’m sure seen in Dunns, which is a hat shop.
“This is Mr. Harold Withersq,” now cried the head teacher when they had all entered, “whom our enemys Emilian Boom and company have chosed to heap insults on seeing he [39] ]was a stranger. His unckle Burt is dead and has left him a good bit of money. And now he has gone and written a most wonderful poem. Our good sonnet teacher is at this moment speaking on the phone to the Minister of Education at Buckingham Palace to ask him if he will have him made our new head poet.”
“Here here,” muttered the gathering, at which the eyes of Mr. Withersq lighted up and he gave a fresh grip on Selia’s hand.
The sonnet teacher now came from the telephone.
“Well?” asked the head teacher. “What does the minister say?”
“Oh, he’s popped up stairs to ask His Majesty the King please to make Mr. Withersq head poet. I told him that Mr. Withersquashes unckle Burt is dead, so I expect it will be all right.” By this he meant that money talks.
[40] Tinkle, tink, the telephone called out. The sonnet teacher went back to it.
All the assembly had their ears out for what he said on it.
“Hello? Oh yes, its the school of poetry. Yes. Oh, you say the King will be very glad to have a fresh poet? That’s good. I see. Goodbye!”
As he put down the hear-piece, a gruff cheer burst from the poets filling the room. The head teacher held up his hand. Silence followed.