When the squall began to gather, Professor Hamblin was hearing the recitation in Greek. The learned gentleman did not think a scholar knew anything unless he possessed a considerable knowledge of Greek. It was his favorite branch, and the class in this language was his pet. He was a strict disciplinarian, and never allowed anything to interrupt the recitation in Greek if he could possibly avoid it. No scholar, not even the captain, as the regulations then were, could leave the class without his permission. It is true, the rule had not been made, or even been considered, with special reference to the commander of the vessel; but Paul had always quietly submitted to it, even at some inconvenience and sacrifice to himself. No emergency had arisen, since the Josephine went into commission, which required the setting aside of the rule, and it was supposed the professors would have judgment enough to use it with proper discretion.
Professor Hamblin, so far as Greek roots were concerned, was not lacking in judgment; but he knew no more about a ship than Cleats, the boatswain, did about Greek. He was a very learned man, and lived in a Greek and Latin atmosphere. The dead languages were the chief end of man to him. He was cold, stern, and precise, except that, when hearing a class in Greek, he warmed up a little, and became more human, especially if the students manifested a becoming interest in his favorite branch.
Unfortunately for Paul Kendall, he was not an enthusiastic devotee of the Greek language and literature. He lived too much in the present to be enamoured of anything so old, and, as it seemed to him, so comparatively useless. But he was faithful in the discharge of all the academic requirements of the institution, not excepting even those branches which he disliked. Though he was always very respectful to Professor Hamblin, he was candid enough to say that he did not like Greek. He was, therefore, no favorite of the learned gentleman, who thought his abilities and his scholarship were over-estimated—because he did not like the dead languages.
"Mr. Terrill directs me to inform you that a squall is coming up," said Ritchie, the third master, as he touched his cap to Captain Kendall.
"No interruption! No interruption!" interposed Professor Hamblin, very ill-naturedly.
The third master touched his cap, as the captain bowed to him in acknowledgment that he had heard the message, and then retired. The professor was vexed: perhaps he was a little more ill-natured than usual, on account of being slightly seasick—an effect produced by the uneasy roll of the vessel in the calm.
"Now, Mr. Kendall, go on with the dual of [Greek: admêv]," added he, as Ritchie retired.
"I must beg you will excuse me, Professor Hamblin," said Paul, with the utmost deference, as he rose from the bench on which he was seated.
"Go on with the dual!" replied the professor, sternly.
Paul looked at the snapping gray eye of the learned gentleman, and was assured that he had a will of his own. As the captain of the Josephine, he did not wish to set an example of insubordination, which others might adopt before they were certain that the emergency required it. He had not seen the gathering clouds, and he had full confidence in the judgment and skill of Terrill, who was in charge of the deck. The rule was that the professors should be obeyed in study hours. This had always been the regulation on board the ship; but, then, the principal, who was a sailor himself, was always present to prevent any abuse of power.