Chapter Three.
Tom Buller.
Weston College was a polishing-up establishment. Boys were not admitted under the age of fourteen, or unless they showed a certain proficiency in Greek and Latin, in the first book of Euclid, in arithmetic and algebra up to simple equations. And the entrance examination, mind you, was no farce. If a candidate was not well grounded they would not have him; and it was necessary to be particular, because the first or lowest form assumed a certain amount of knowledge in the commencement of that course which proposed to land the neophyte in the Indian Civil Service, the army, or a good scholarship at one of the universities.
Though fourteen was the age of possible admission, very few boys were qualified until they were at least a year older, and consequently there was no organised system of fagging, and flogging was a very rare and extreme measure; but otherwise the system somewhat resembled that of the large public schools. The head-master and three other masters each had a house full of boarders, whose preparation of lessons on certain subjects he superintended; and every boy had a separate apartment, which was his study and bedroom.
It was an expensive school, and the discipline of Dr Jolliffe was more lax than many parents and guardians quite liked; and yet few of the boys who went there were rich. It was very rarely, that is, that one of them had not to make his own way in the world. And the number, which was limited, was always complete. For results speak for themselves, and the examination lists showed triumphant successes for Weston. It is true that if they only took boys of considerable proficiency, and got rid of all who made no progress, they might be expected to show a good average; but then, on the other hand, there was no cramming, and every encouragement was given to healthy athletic exercise. Three or four years were taken to do the work which is too often jammed into a few months. That was the secret; and, though of course there were failures, it answered well on the whole.
This is an explanatory digression, just to let you know what sort of stage our characters are acting upon.
It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday, and there was only one boy left in Dr Jolliffe’s house. His name was Buller, and he was neither sick nor under punishment. His window was wide open, for it was very hot and stuffy in his little room, into which the sun poured, and on the other side of a lane which ran underneath was the cricket-field, from which the thud of balls struck by the bat, voices, and laughter resounded in a way to tempt any fellow out of his hole. But there he stuck with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, forcing himself to concentrate his attention upon a book which lay open before him.
“Because a divided by b equals c divided by d,” he murmured, “the first quotients m m are equal. Yes, I see that; again, since a divided by b equals m plus x divided by b, and c divided by d equals m plus r divided by d, hum, hum, why, in the name of all that’s blue—oh, yes! I see. But then—oh, a thousand blisters on the idiot who invented this rot! But I won’t be licked.”