A FIRST-CLASS HUMBUG.
Julius found, to his great satisfaction, that he was placed in a class
of boys of his own age and size, and that the lessons assigned were not
beyond his ability to learn. Teddy Bates, on the other hand, who had had
no opportunity of increasing his knowledge since his departure from New
York, was placed in the lowest class. He was astonished to find his old
companion so far above him.
“How did you do it, Julius?” he asked at recess.
“I have been studying at home ever since I came here. Mr. Taylor helped
me.”
“You didn’t know no more’n I do when you came out here.”
“That’s so, Teddy.”
“You must have studied awful hard.”
“That’s because I wanted to make up for all the time I’d lost. I was a
reg’lar know-nothing when I began.”
“Like me,” said Teddy.
“You haven’t had the same chance I have,” said Julius, wishing to save
the feelings of his friend.
“I’ve had to peg shoes all day. I didn’t get no time to study.”
“Never mind, Teddy. You’ve got a chance now. Do the best you can, and if
you get stuck, I’ll help you.”
“What a lot you must know, Julius! You’re in the highest class. Do you
think you can get along?” asked Teddy, with newborn respect for his
friend on account of his superior knowledge.
“I ain’t afraid,” said Julius, confidently. “You can work your way up,
too, if you try.”
“I ain’t as smart as you are, Julius.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” said our hero, though he secretly doubted it, and
with good reason. There was no doubt that Julius surpassed his friend,
not only in energy, but in natural talent.
The boys soon discovered that their new teacher was by no means equal in
scholarship to the favorite whom he had superseded. Notwithstanding he
had graduated, as he asserted, at one of the most celebrated academies
in Maine, he proved to be slow at figures, and very confused in his
explanations of mathematical principles. It may be well to let the
reader into a little secret. Mr. Slocum had passed a few months at an
academy in Maine, without profiting much by his advantages; and, having
had very indifferent success in teaching schools of a low grade at home,
had come out West by invitation of his uncle, under the mistaken
impression that his acquirements, though not appreciated in the East,
would give him a commanding position at the West. He was destined to
find that the West is as exacting as the East in the matter of
scholarship.
Mr. Slocum betrayed his weakness first on the second day. Frank Bent, a
member of the first class, went up to him at recess with a sum in
complex fractions.
“I don’t quite understand this sum, Mr. Slocum,” he said. “Will you
explain it to me?”
“Certainly,” said the teacher, pompously. “I dare say it seems hard to
you, but to one who has studied the higher branches of mathematics like
I have, it is, I may say, as easy as the multiplication table.”
“You must be very learned, Mr. Slocum,” said Frank, with a grave face,
but a humorous twinkle in his eye.
“That isn’t for me to say,” said Mr. Slocum, complacently. “You know the
truth shouldn’t be spoken at all times. Ahem! what sum is it that
troubles you?”
“This, sir.”
“Yes, I see.”
Mr. Slocum took up the arithmetic, and looked fixedly at the sum with an
air of profound wisdom, then turned back to the rule, looked carefully
through the specimen example done in the book, and after five minutes
remarked: “It is quite easy, that is, for me. Give me your slate.”
He worked on the sum for the remainder of the recess, referring
frequently to the book, but apparently arrived at no satisfactory
result.
“Do you find it difficult, sir?” asked Frank, mischievously.
“Certainly not,” said the teacher; “but I think I see why it is that you
didn’t get it.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because the answer in the book is wrong,” replied Mr. Slocum. “Ahem! I
have discovered other errors before. I believe I will write to the
publishers about it, Really, it ought to be corrected in the next
edition.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, amused; for he didn’t credit the statement
about the error.
“What do you think Slocum says?” he said in a whisper to Julius, who sat
at the same desk with him.
“What is it?”
“He says the answer to the fifth sum is wrong in the book, and he is
going to write to the publishers about it.”
“The fifth sum! Why, I’ve done it, and got the same answer as is in the
book.”
“How did you do it?”
“Just like the rest. It’s easy enough. I’ll show you.”
“I see,” said Frank. “The teacher worked on it for ten minutes, and then
couldn’t get it. I guess he don’t know much.”
“I don’t see anything hard about it,” said Julius. “All you’ve got to do
is to follow the rule.”
“I’ll tell him you did it when we recite. See what he’ll say.”
“First class in arithmetic,” called Mr. Slocum.
The boys took their places.
“Our lesson to-day treats of complex fractions,” said Mr. Slocum,
pompously. “Does any boy know what complex means?”
“Difficult,” suggested one boy.
“Not exactly. It means complicated. That is, they are puzzling to
ordinary intellects, but very simple to those who have studied the
higher branches of mathematics, such as algebra, geometry,
triggernometry”--this was the way the teacher pronounced it--“and so
forth. I have studied them all,” he added, impressively, “because I have
a taste for mathematics. Many of you wouldn’t be able to understand such
recondite studies. I will now ask each of you to give the rule. Julius,
you may give it first.”
The rule was correctly recited by each member of the class.
“That is very well,” said Mr. Slocum, blandly. “I will now explain the
way in which the sums are done.”
Mr. Slocum went to the blackboard, and, keeping the book open, did the
sum already done in the book, giving the explanation from the page
before him.
“You see that there seems to be no difficulty,” he said, with an air of
superior knowledge. “I have, however, detected an error in the fifth
sum, about which one of the class consulted me during recess. The book
is evidently wrong, and I propose to write to the publishers, and
acquaint them with the fact.”
Here Frank Bent raised his hand.
“What is wanted?” asked the teacher.
“Julius Taylor has done the sum, and gets the same answer as the book.”
“Julius, do I understand you to say that you got the same answer as the
book?” demanded Mr. Slocum, rather discomposed. “I am afraid,” he added,
severely, “you copied the answer out of the book.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Julius, bluntly.
“You may go to the board, and perform the problem, and explain it after
you get through,” said the teacher.
Julius went to the board, and did what was required; writing down at the
close the same answer given in the book.
“Now elucidate it,” said Mr. Slocum, who, like many superficial persons,
thought that the use of long and uncommon words would impress others
with an idea of his learning.
Julius had never heard the word before, but he supposed it must mean
“explain,” and accordingly explained it--so well, that even Mr. Slocum
understood the operation, and perceived that it was correct. It was
rather an awkward situation, to admit that a pupil had succeeded where
he had failed; but Mr. Slocum was equal to the emergency.
“Ahem!” he admitted, “you are correct. I did the sum by a recondite
process which is in use in the higher branches of mathematics, and I
probably made a mistake in one of the figures, which led to a different
result. The method in the book is a much more simple one, as I explained
to you a short time ago. Frank Bent, you may take the next sum and do it
on the board.”
It so happened that Frank, who was not very strong in arithmetic, made a
mistake, and got a wrong answer.
“My answer doesn’t agree with the book,” he said.
Mr. Slocum looked at the operation; but, though his face wore an
expression of profound wisdom, it was too complex for him. He was,
however, thoroughly up in the science of sham.
“You have made a mistake,” he said, sagely. “Can any boy point it out?”
Julius raised his hand, greatly to the relief of the teacher.
“Julius, you may come up to the board, and point out the right method of
performing the sum.”
Our hero did so; thereby affording information to the teacher, as well
as to his classmates.
“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, patronizingly. “Julius, you do me credit.
Bent, do you understand the sum now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must pay more attention next time. You can’t do anything without
attention and talent. When I was a student at one of the most celebrated
educational institutions in Maine, I was noted for my attention. When
the principal handed me the first prize at the end of the term, he said
to me: ‘Theophilus, you have gained this testimonial by your attention
and natural talent.’ I am sorry that I left the prize at my home in
Maine. It would give me pleasure to show it to you, as it might
encourage you to go and do likewise. We will now go through the
remaining sums. John Sandford, you may try the sixth sum.”
So the recitation proceeded. In spite of his pompous words, the scholars
began to suspect that the new teacher was a first-class humbug. There is
reason to believe that they were not very far from the truth.