"If it is really important," he said. "Yes, by all means. Go right ahead."
"Smithy," Possy plunged on, "I am nonplussed. I am really, terribly disturbed. I've never felt like this before."
Smithy waited patiently while Possy poured himself a large brandy and soda, hastily gulped it down, and made a face as he regretted the action.
"How much do you know about our methods of working in the School of Environment?" the professor asked, taking a new tack.
"Nothing, of course," replied Smithy. The statement was not precisely true, but Smithy was not yet ready to confess that he had spies in his friend's school.
"Well, then," said Possy, knowing full well that Smithy had been getting reports on his college for many years, and feeling secretly glad that he, in turn, had been spying.
"Well, then," he repeated, "you should be aware that we know absolutely nothing about the children we enroll. Most of them are infants. We do not know who their parents were, or where they were born. Except for the obvious clues which their bodies furnish, we do not even know their national or racial origins.
"We bring them up with absolutely equal treatment—the finest of everything. At the age of five we divide them arbitrarily into classes and begin training them for occupations. Some we educate as scholars, some laborers, some professional men. In me, dear friend, you see one of the triumphs of our methods. I myself was a foundling—raised and educated in the School of Environment. Whatever I may be, I owe to the School."
He paused to give Smithy a chance to digest the statement.
"Of course," Possy continued, "we take into consideration such factors as physical build and muscular development. We don't train undersized boys to be freight handlers. But in general the division is arbitrary. And you'd be amazed how they respond to it. To keep a check on things, we interview our students twice a year to see how much they have learned.