"Just give me your candid opinion of _A Dominie's_ Log; I'd like to
hear it."
Macdonald looked up from digging into the bowl of his pipe with a
dilapidated penknife. He is now head-master of Tarbonny Public School,
a school I know well, for I taught in it for two years as an ex-pupil
teacher.
Six days ago he wrote asking me to come and spend a holiday with him,
so I hastily packed my bag and made for Euston.
This evening had been a sort of complimentary dinner in my honour, the
guests being neighbouring dominies and their wives, none of whom I
knew. We had talked of the war, of rising prices, and a thousand other
things. Suddenly someone mentioned education, and of course my
unfortunate _Log_ had come under discussion.
I had been anxious to continue my discussion with a Mrs. Brown on the
subject of the relative laying values of Minorcas and Buff Orpingtons,
but I had been dragged to the miserable business in spite of myself.
Now they were all gone, and Macdonald had returned to the charge.
"It's hardly a fair question," said Mrs. Macdonald, "to ask an author
what he thinks of his own book. No man can judge his own work, any
more than a mother can judge her own child."
"That's true!" I said. "A man can't judge his own behaviour, and
writing a book is an element of behaviour. Besides, there is a better
reason why a writer cannot judge his own work," I added.
"Because he never reads it?" queried Macdonald with a grin.