“Is he in your class?”
“Yes.”
“Is he much of a scholar?”
“I don’t think he cares much for Latin and Greek,” answered Mr. Crabb. “But I must ring the bell. I see that it wants but five minutes of nine.”
“About my desk?”
“Here is another vacant desk, but it is not as well located.”
“Never mind. I will take it. I shall probably have a better neighbor.”
The bell was rung. Another teacher appeared, an elderly man, who looked as if all his vitality had been expended on his thirty years of teaching. He, too, was shabbily dressed—his coat being shiny and napless, and his vest lacking two out of the five original buttons.
“I guess Smith doesn’t pay very high salaries,” thought Hector. “Poor fellows. His teachers look decidedly seedy.”
The boys began to pour in, not only those on the playground, but as many more who lived in the village, and were merely day scholars. Jim Smith stalked in with an independent manner and dropped into his seat carelessly. He looked around him patronizingly. He felt that he was master of the situation. Both ushers and all the pupils stood in fear of him, as he well knew. Only to his uncle did he look up as his superior, and he took care to be on good terms with him, as it was essential to the maintenance of his personal authority.