“Indeed,” exclaimed Brayton. “Do you know anything of Greek or Latin, Mr. Vernon?”
“No, not a word; but I understand Spanish, and can talk it a little.”
“English, French, German, Spanish, at seventeen! That’ll do. I’m not afraid of the rest. Your trouble won’t be in languages, but you’ve plenty of work cut out for you. I’ll take you in hand, at once, myself. Three hours’ study a day, my young friend, from now till school opens.”
“There goes the fishing, Bar,” exclaimed Val, mournfully.
“No, it don’t,” said Brayton. “To-morrow morning, Bar, you are to take your Latin grammar with you and go to the lake. I’ll hear you recite when you get home. Next day, Greek. Next, something else. Read right ahead, whether you understand it or not. We’ll see about that afterwards.”
It seemed a curious way to begin with a new scholar, but it was the only method Brayton could think of for finding out precisely where Bar was, intellectually, and what he had better try to do with him. Such an odd fish of a scholar he had never before come in contact with.
That afternoon the boys went over to the Academy with their new friend, and became as well posted as Zeb Fuller himself in the quantities and qualities of the various apparatus, old as well as new. Val took Bar, while Brayton was busy in the lecture-room, and showed him over the whole building.
“Have you cut your name anywhere?” asked Bar.
“No,” said Val, “but every boy is expected to before he goes away. If he does it too soon they expel him.”
“I see,” laughed Bar. “Is that the bell-rope?”