The children had left the school, and the pianos were closed for the night. The Senior Wranglers who had been conducting the lessons were divesting themselves of their academical robes, and preparing to quit the premises to return to their palatial homes, the outcome of a portion of their princely salaries. In couples they disappeared until only one was left—he was older than his colleagues, and consequently slower in his movements. As he was about to summon his carriage a wild-looking individual suddenly appeared before him, and, sinking in a chair, appealed to him with a gesture that, fraught with weakness, was yet defiant.
"What do you want with me, my good man?" asked the Senior Wrangler, who had a kindly nature.
"What have you done with my sons?" gasped the visitor.
"No doubt, if they were intended for crossing-sweepers, we have instructed them in the rudiments of classical dancing, and if you purposed bringing them up as errand-boys, it is highly probable that we have taught them how to play upon the harpsichord."
"That's how it is!" cried the other. "They have been taught how to play on the harpsichord; and, as the instrument is obsolete, I ask you, Sir, how are they to get their living?"
"That is no affair of mine, my good fellow," returned the Senior Wrangler, dryly. "It is my duty to teach the child, and not to answer the questions of the parent."
"And the rates are doubled!" cried the Board Scholar's father, wringing his hands in despair, "and I am ruined!" The Senior Wrangler was growing impatient. He had to dine at the Club, and go to the Opera. "Well, what do you want with me?" he asked.
"Employment!" cried the other, in an agony of woe. "Give me employment. I have been ruined by the rates; let the rates support me—give me employment!"
The Senior Wrangler considered for a moment; then he spoke—
"Do you think, my friend, that you could look after our highest class?" The man shook his head.