G., an alarmist, who has heard a rumour that smallpox has broken out in the adjacent village, and recommends that the entire school be vaccinated forthwith.
H., a golfer, suggesting a half-holiday, to celebrate some suddenly unearthed anniversary in the annals of Country or School.
Lastly, on the telephone, I., a valetudinarian, to announce that he is suffering from double pneumonia, and will be unable to come into School until after luncheon.
To be quite just, I. is the rarest bird of all. The average schoolmaster has a perfect passion for sticking to his work when utterly unfit for it. In this respect he differs materially from his pupil, who lies in bed in the dawning hours, cudgelling his sleepy but fertile brain for a disease which
(2) Will incapacitate him for work all morning.
(3) Will not prevent him playing football in the afternoon.
But if a master sprains his ankle, he hobbles about his form-room on a crutch. If he contracts influenza, he swallows a jorum of ammoniated quinine, puts on three waistcoats, and totters into school, where he proceeds to disseminate germs among his not ungrateful charges. Even if he is rendered speechless by tonsillitis, he takes his form as usual, merely substituting written invective (chalked up on the blackboard), for the torrent of verbal abuse which he usually employs as a medium of instruction.
It is all part--perhaps an unconscious part--of his permanent pose as an apostle of what is strenuous and praiseworthy. It is also due to a profound conviction that whoever of his colleagues is told off to take his form for him will indubitably undo the work of many years within a few hours.
Besides harrying the head and expostulating with one another, the Housemasters wage unceasing war with the teaching staff.
The bone of contention in every case is a boy, and the combat always follows certain well-defined lines.
A form-master overtakes a Housemaster hurrying to morning chapel, and inquires carelessly:
"By the way, isn't Binks tertius your boy?"
The Housemaster guardedly admits that this is so.
"Oh, come, I say, isn't that rather drastic? What has he done?"
"Nothing--not a hand's-turn--for six weeks."
"Um!" The Housemaster endeavours to look severely judicial. "Young Binks is rather an exceptional boy," he observes. (Young Binks always is.) "Are you quite sure you _know_ him?"