I have packed all my belongings. My trunk and two big boxes of books
stand in the middle of a floor littered with papers and straw. I had my
typewriter carefully packed too, but I took it from out its wrappings,
and I sit amidst the ruins of my room with my wee machine before me. It
is one of those little folding ones weighing about six pounds.
The London train goes at seven, and it is half-past five now. It was
just ten minutes ago that I suddenly resolved to keep a diary ... only a
dominie can keep a Log, and I am a dominie no longer.
I hear Janet Brown's voice outside. She is singing "Keep the Home Fires
Burning" ... and she was in tears this afternoon. The limmer ought to be
at home weeping her dominie's departure.
Yet ... what is Janet doing at my window? Her home is a good two miles
along the road. I wonder if she has come to see me off. Yes, she has; I
hear her cry to Ellen Smith: "He's packit, Ellen, and Aw hear him
addressin' the labels on his typewriter." The besom!
Well, well, children have short memories. When Macdonald enters the room
on Monday morning they will forget all about me.
I know Macdonald. He is a decent sort to meet in a house, but in school
he is a stern one. His chief drawback is his lack of humour. I could
swear that he will whack Jim Jackson for impudence before he is half an
hour in the school.