CHAPTER XXVII.
ABOUT LITERATURE AND LAW.
Five years had passed since Cuthbert Lloyd's name was first inscribed in the big register on Dr. Johnston's desk, and he had been surely, steadily rising to the proud position of being the first boy in the school, the "dux," as the doctor with his love for the classics preferred to call it.
And yet there were some branches of study that he still seemed unable to get a good hold upon, or make satisfactory progress with. One of these was algebra. For some reason or other, the hidden principles of this puzzling science eluded his grasp, as though a and x had been eels of phenomenal activity. He tried again and again to pierce the obscurity that enshrouded them, but at best with imperfect success; and it was a striking fact that he should, term after term, carry off the arithmetic prize by splendid scores, and yet be ingloriously beaten at algebra.
Another subject that became a great bugbear to him was what was known as composition. On Fridays the senior boys were required to bring an original composition, covering at least two pages of letter paper, upon any subject they saw fit. This requirement made that day "black Friday" for Bert and many others besides. The writing of a letter or composition is probably the hardest task that can be set before a schoolboy. It was safe to say that in many cases a whipping would be gratefully preferred. But for the disgrace of the thing, Bert would certainly rather at any time have taken a mild whipping than sit down and write an essay.
At the first, taking pity upon his evident helplessness, Mr. Lloyd gave him a good deal of assistance, or allowed Mary—the ever-willing and ever-helpful Mary—to do so. But after a while he thought Bert should run alone, and prohibited further aid. Thus thrown upon his own resources, the poor fellow struggled hard, to very little purpose. Even when his father gave him a lift to the extent of suggesting a good theme, he found it almost impossible to write anything about it.
One Friday he went without having prepared a composition. He hoped that Dr. Johnston would just keep him in after school for a while, or give him an "imposition" of fifty lines of Virgil to copy as a penalty, and that that would be an end of the matter. But, as it turned out, the doctor thought otherwise. When Bert presented no composition he inquired if he had any excuse, meaning a note from his father asking that he be excused this time. Bert answered that he had not.
"Then," said Dr. Johnston, sternly, "you must remain in after school until your composition is written."
Bert was a good deal troubled by this unexpected penalty, but there was of course no appeal from the master's decision. The school hours passed, three o'clock came, and all the scholars save those who were kept in for various shortcomings went joyfully off to their play, leaving the big, bare, dreary room to the doctor and his prisoners. Then one by one, as they met the conditions of their sentence, or made up their deficiencies in work, they slipped quietly away, and ere the old yellow-faced clock solemnly struck the hour of four, Bert was alone with the grim and silent master.
He had not been idle during that hour. He had made more than one attempt to prepare some sort of a composition, but both ideas and words utterly failed him. He could not even think of a subject, much less cover two pages of letter paper with comments upon it. By four o'clock despair had settled down upon him, and he sat at his desk doing nothing, and waiting he hardly knew for what.