There was a great talk at the Doctor's establishment about the event of
the season, an event that filled the boys' brains, seniors and juniors,
for weeks before it took place, and brought forth a rebuke from the
Doctor one morning at breakfast, for the masters were reporting that the
papers sent in by the boys were very much wanting in merit. There was a
report, too, going about that Monsieur Brohanne had been seen walking up
and down the class-room tearing his hair--a most serious matter in his
case, for it was exceedingly short.
Matters had come to such a pitch that the Doctor sternly gave quite a
little lecture upon the duty of every pupil to do his very best, whether
at work or play, saying that a boy who could not give his mind to
working could not devote it to playing well. And if in future, he said,
his pupils did not work hard, he should be obliged to make them suffer
the contumely of sending in word that they would not be able to meet
Strongley School in the annual cricket-match.
"I regret it very much, young gentlemen," said the Doctor; "but if you
will disgrace your _alma mater_ by idleness, I have no other
alternative. Duty and pleasure must go hand in hand."
The boys groaned that morning, and broke up into little knots after
breakfast to discuss the matter. Little jealousies were forgotten, and
Slegge declared it was too bad of the Doctor, who seemed to be blaming
them, the seniors, for the failings of those lazy little beggars the
juniors, just when their picked eleven had arrived at such perfection,
through his batting, Glyn's bowling, and the Nigger's wicket-keeping,
that success was certain.
There was gloom in every face save one, and that appertained to Morris,
who watched his opportunity, button-holed Glyn and Singh, and led them
off into the solitude of the lecture-hall.
"Good news!" he said. "Splendid news! Gentlemen, this is entirely a
private matter between us three, and I know you will be ready to
rejoice."
"What, have you got some fine appointment, Mr Morris?" cried Glyn, who
had grown to be on quite friendly terms with the master in a very short
time of late, Morris making a point of treating him always with genuine
respect, and aiding him in every way possible--coaching him, in fact,
with his mathematics, in which, truth to tell, Glyn did not shine.
"No," cried Morris, in answer to the lad's question; "it is better than
that. Somebody else has."
"You mean Professor Barclay?" said Singh.
"Yes, sir; I mean Professor Barclay. I have had a letter from him this
morning telling me of his success, and that he leaves for India
directly, to take up some post in connection with the Sanskrit college."
"I am very glad," said Singh, "for he must have been dreadfully poor."
"Sadly so," said Morris.
"I am glad too," said Glyn; "very."
"You don't know what a relief it is to me," continued Morris
confidentially.
"Is he coming down to see you before he goes?" said Glyn.
"Oh no. He writes word that he is staying at apartments in London in
the neighbourhood of the East India Docks until the great Indiaman
sails, and desires his most respectful compliments to you both, and
above all he begs me to tell you, Mr Singh, that the feelings of
gratitude within his breast will never expire. While, as now he is
entering upon a career of prosperity, many weeks will not elapse before
he sends something, upon receipt of which he hopes you will return to
him certain little memoranda that you hold, signed by his name."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Singh, "he'll wait a long time. Why, I burned them
all directly after he gave them to me. Are you going to write to him,
Mr Morris?"
"Yes; I must reply to his letter."
"Then, please tell him from me that I wish him all success in my
beautiful country, and that he is never to trouble himself any more
about the memoranda."
"For you have burned them?" said Morris.
"Yes, of course."