“That kid,” said Wally, one day, sotto voce, as class was proceeding, “has no more idea of teaching than my hat. We don’t get a chance to do things ourselves, with him always messing about and looking over. It’s rude to look over. I mean to mark my exercise private in future.”
“The thing is,” said D’Arcy, “if he’d anything original to say it wouldn’t matter so. But he’s always talking the same old rot about roots. What’s the use of a root, I should like to know, if you can’t bury it? Eh, kid?”
Fisher minor, to whom the question was addressed, did not know, and remarked that they didn’t teach Latin here the same way as when he learned from a governess at home.
He regretted this admission almost as soon as he had made it. For Wally and D’Arcy immediately got paper and began to draw fancy portraits of Fisher minor learning Latin under the old régime. The point of these illustrations was not so much in the figures as in the conversation. The figures were more or less unlike the originals; at least, Fisher minor declared that the three isosceles triangles piled by Wally one on the top of the other were not a bit like his governess; while the plum-pudding on two sticks, with a little pudding above for a head which emitted four huge tears, the size of an orange, from either eye, he regarded as a simple libel on himself. In one sense the likenesses were speaking—that is, a gibbous balloon proceeded from the mouth of each figure, wherein the following dialogue was indicated. “Governess.—‘Naughty little Tommy-wommy, didn’t know his Latin. Tommy must have a smack when he goes bye-bye.’ Tommy.—‘Booh, hoo, how bow, yow, wow, oh my! I’ll tell my ma!’”
“Bring up that paper, Wheatfield,” said Mr Stratton.
Wally made a wild grab at Ashby’s exercise, and was proceeding to take it up when the master stopped him.
“Not that; the other, Wheatfield. Bring it immediately.”
Whereupon Wally with shame had to rejoice Ashby’s heart by restoring his exercise, and take up in its place the fancy portrait.
Mr Stratton gazed attentively and critically at this work of art.
“Not at all well done, Wheatfield,” said he. “Sit down at my table here and draw me thirty copies of it before you leave this room. Next boy, go on.”