“Aristophanes,” said the head-master, after calling attention to the particular merits of the Greek play to be undertaken, “did not write solely for the Sixth form of a public school. I am afraid some of you, last term, thought that Euripides did. He will require more than usual attention. I am sure he can easily receive it. I would not, if I were you boys, be too chary this term of extra work. Some of you are almost painfully conscientious in your objection to overdo a particular study. Aristophanes is an author with whom liberties may safely be taken in this respect. The test of a good classical scholar, remember, is not the work he is obliged to do, but what he is not obliged to do—his extra work; I advise you not to be afraid to try it. The Sanatorium has been unusually free of cases of over-pressure lately. A quarter of an hour’s extra work a day by the Sixth is not at all likely to tax its capacity,” etcetera.
This was the doctor’s pleasant style, delivered with a severe face and downcast eyes.
Then ensued a little lecture to the prefects on their duties and responsibilities, which was respectfully listened to. To judge by it, such a thing as any rumour of dissensions between rival sides and houses in the school had never reached his ears. And yet the knowing ones said the doctor knew better than the captain himself everything that went on in Fellsgarth, and could at any moment lay his hand on an offender. But he preferred to leave the police of the place to his head boys; and on the whole it was perhaps better for the School that he did.
To a larger or less degree the other forms, Classic and Modern, were lectured in similar strains by their respective masters. The new boys among the junior division were, perhaps, the only ones who listened attentively to what Mr Stratton, the young, cheery athlete who presided over their studies, had to say. And even the irrespectful admiration was a good deal distracted by the babel of voices which was going on all round them.
“Never mind him,” said D’Arcy; “he’s a kid of a master, and don’t know any better. It’s all rot. Bless you, we get the same thing—”
“D’Arcy,” said the master, suddenly, “I was recommending the value of extra work, especially for clever boys. Perhaps you will try the experiment with fifty lines of Virgil by this time to-morrow.”
“There you are,” said D’Arcy, appealing to his neighbours; “didn’t I tell you he talked rot? Did you ever hear such a stale joke as that?”
The two new boys were tremendously impressed by this sudden swoop of vengeance, and gazed open-mouthed at the master for the rest of the class, stealing only now and again a hasty glance at D’Arcy to see how he was bearing up against his sore afflictions.
D’Arcy, to do him justice, appeared to be bearing up very well. He was, in truth, engaged in a mental calculation as to how, during the coming term, he could most economically “job” out the impositions which usually fell to his share. If his countenance now and then brightened as he met the awe-struck gaze of the two new boys, it was because in them he thought he discerned a lively hope of solving the problem creditably to himself and not unprofitably to them.
“Come along,” said he as soon as the class was released; “let’s get out into the fresh air and have a cool. Hullo, Wally,” as the owner of that name trotted up, “what’s up?”