Then Speed remembered something that the Head had once told him about Harrington being a littérateur and and an author of books on ethics.
"I never met him," he said, tentatively, seeking to guide the conversation into a discussion of the man.
Pritchard, ever ready to follow up a lead given to him, remarked: "You missed something, then. He was quite a character. Used to teach here once, you know."
"Really?"
"Used to try to, anyway, when they'd let him. Couldn't keep any sort of discipline. During his first prep they poured ink down his neck."
"Pritchard needn't talk," interposed Clanwell, laughing. "During his first prep they mixed carbide and water under his chair." The rest of the Common-Room, among whom Pritchard was no favourite, joined in the laughter. Then Clanwell took up the thread, kinder in his narrative than Pritchard had been. "I liked Harrington. He was a good sort, but he wasn't made for a schoolmaster. I told him so, and after his breakdown he took my advice and left the profession."
"Breakdown?" said Speed. "He had a breakdown then?"
"Yes, his wife died when his daughter was born. He never told us anything about it. One morning he collapsed over a four alpha English form. I was next door. I was used to a row, but the terrible pandemonium made me wonder if anything had happened. I went in and found the little devils giving him sportive first-aid. They'd half undressed him. My word!—I picked out those that were in my house and gave them a tidy thrashing. Don't you remember, Lavery?"
"I remember," said the indolent Lavery, "you trying to persuade me to do the same with my little lot."
"But Harrington?" queried Speed, anxious that the conversation should not be diverted into other channels.