"So? I should think you are rather small to be so high?" My ideas of grades were rather hazy, having been derived from "Tom Brown at Rugby" and such like encyclopædias.
"Pah! I stand next to head," he cried contemptuously.
"You do! Who stands head?"
"Iky Walthiemer—he's fourteen and I ain't but twelve. Then there is a fellow named Johnson—Jimmy Johnson. But he ain't nothin'!"
"He isn't? What's the matter with him?"
"He ain't got no eye on him—he don't never see nothin'."
"You mean he's dull?"
"Sure! Just mem'ry, that's all. He's dull. We beat 'em all."
"Who are 'we'?"
"We Jews."