A NASTY CROPPER.
But there were pitfalls ahead. As he moved to the botany table a
grey-bearded examiner waved his hand in the direction of the row of
microscopes as an intimation that the student was to look through them
and pronounce upon what he saw. Tom seemed to compress his whole soul
into his one eye as he glared hopelessly through the tube at what
appeared to him to resemble nothing so much as a sheet of ice with the
marks of skates upon it.
"Come along, come along!" the examiner growled impatiently. Courtesy is
conspicuous by its absence in most of the Edinburgh examinations.
"You must pass on to the next one, unless you can offer an opinion."
This venerable teacher of botany, though naturally a kind-hearted man,
was well known as one of the most malignant species of examiners, one of
the school which considers such an ordeal in the light of a trial of
strength between their pupils and themselves. In his eyes the candidate
was endeavouring to pass, and his duty was to endeavour to prevent him,
a result which, in a large proportion of cases, he successfully
accomplished.
"Hurry on, hurry on!" he reiterated fussily.
"It's a section of a leaf," said the student.
"It's nothing of the sort," the examiner shouted exultantly.
"You've made a bad mistake, sir; a very bad one, indeed. It's the
spirilloe of a water plant. Move on to the next."
Tom, in much perturbation of mind, shuffled down the line and looked
through the next brazen tube. "This is a preparation of stomata," he
said, recognizing it from a print in his book on botany.
The professor shook his head despondingly. "You are right," he said;
"pass on to the next."
The third preparation was as puzzling to the student as the first had
been, and he was steeling himself to meet the inevitable when an
unexpected circumstance turned the scale in his favour. It chanced that
the other examiner, being somewhat less of a fossil than his
_confreres_, and having still vitality enough to take an interest in
things which were foreign to his subject, had recognized the student as
being the young hero who had damaged himself in upholding the honour of
his country. Being an ardent patriot himself his heart warmed towards
Tom, and perceiving the imminent peril in which he stood he interfered
in his behalf, and by a few leading questions got him on safer ground,
and managed to keep him there until the little bell tinkled once more.
The younger examiner showed remarkable tact in feeling his way, and
keeping within the very limited area of the student's knowledge. He
succeeded so well, however, that although his colleague shook his hoary
head and intimated in other ways his poor opinion of the candidate's
acquirements, he was forced to put down another "S. B." upon the paper
in front of him. The student drew a long breath when he saw it, and
marched across to the other table with a mixture of trepidation and
confidence, like a jockey riding at the last and highest hurdle in a
steeple-chase.
Alas! it is the last hurdle which often floors the rider, and Thomas too
was doomed to find the final ordeal an insurmountable one. As he
crossed the room some evil chance made him think of the gossip outside
and of his allusion to the abstruse substance known as cacodyl.
Once let a candidate's mind hit upon such an idea as this, and nothing
will ever get it out of his thoughts. Tom felt his head buzz round, and
he passed his hand over his forehead and through his curly yellow hair
to steady himself. He felt a frenzied impulse as he sat down to
inform the examiners that he knew very well what they were going to ask
him, and that it was hopeless for him to attempt to answer it.
The leading professor was a ruddy-faced, benevolent old gentleman, with
spectacles and a kindly manner. He made a few commonplace remarks to
his colleagues with the good-natured intention of giving the
confused-looking student before him time to compose himself.
Then, turning blandly towards him, he said in the mildest of tones--
"Have you ever rowed in a pond?"
Tom acknowledged that he had.
"Perhaps, on those occasions," the examiner continued, "you may have
chanced to touch the mud at the bottom with your oar."
Tom agreed that it was possible.
"In that case you may have observed that a large bubble, or a succession
of them has risen from the bottom to the surface. Now, of what gas was
that bubble composed?"
The unhappy student, with the one idea always fermenting on his brain,
felt that the worst had come upon him. Without a moment's hesitation or
thought he expressed his conviction that the compound was cacodyl.
Never did two men look more surprised, and never did two generally grave
_savants_ laugh more heartily than did the two examiners when they
realized what the candidate had answered. Their mirth speedily brought
him back to his senses. He saw with a feeling of despair that it was
marsh gas which they had expected--one of the simplest and commonest of
chemical combinations. Alas! it was too late now. He knew full well
that nothing could save him. With poor marks in botany and zoology,
such an error in chemistry was irreparable. He did what was perhaps the
best thing under the circumstances. Rising from his chair he made a
respectful bow to the examiners, and walked straight out of the room--to
the great astonishment of the janitor, who had never before witnessed
such a breach of decorum. As the student closed the door behind him he
looked back and saw that the other professors had left their respective
tables and were listening to an account of the incident from one of the
chemists--and a roar of laughter the moment afterwards showed that they
appreciated the humour of it. His fellow-students gathered round Tom
outside in the hope of sharing in the joke, but he pushed them angrily
aside and strode through the midst of them and down the University
steps. He knew that the story would spread fast enough without his
assistance. His mind was busy too in shaping a certain resolution which
he had often thought over during the last few months.
The two old people and Miss Kate Harston waited long and anxiously in
their sitting-room at the hotel for some news of the absentee. The
doctor had, at first, attempted a lofty cynicism and general assumption
of indifference, which rapidly broke down as the time went by, until at
last he was wandering round the room, drumming upon the furniture with
his fingers and showing every other sign of acute impatience.
The window was on the first floor, and Kate had been stationed there as
a sentinel to watch the passing crowd and signal the first sign of
tidings.
"Can't you see him yet?" the doctor asked for the twentieth time.
"No, dear, I don't," she answered, glancing up and down the street.
"He must be out now. He should have come straight to us. Come away
from the window, my dear. We must not let the young monkey see how
anxious we are about him."
Kate sat down by the old man and stroked his broad brown hand with her
tender white one. "Don't be uneasy, dear," she said; "it's sure to be
all right."
"Yes, he is sure to pass," the doctor answered; "but--bless my soul,
who's this?"
The individual who caused this exclamation was a very broad-faced and
rosy-cheeked little girl, coarsely clad, with a pile of books and a
slate under her arm, who had suddenly entered the apartment.
"Please sir," said this apparition, with a bob, "I'm Sarah Jane."
"Are you, indeed?" said the doctor, with mild irony. "And what d'ye
want here, Sarah Jane?"
"Please, sir, my mithar, Mrs. McTavish, asked me if I wudna' gie ye this
letter frae the gentleman what's lodgin' wi' her." With these words the
little mite delivered her missive and, having given another bob,
departed upon her ways.
"Why," the doctor cried in astonishment, "it's directed to me and in
Tom's writing. What can be the meaning of this?"
"Oh dear! oh dear!" Mrs. Dimsdale cried, with the quick perception of
womanhood; "it means that he has failed."
"Impossible!" said the doctor, fumbling with nervous fingers at the
envelope. "By Jove, though," he continued, as he glanced over the
contents, "you're right. He has. Poor lad! he's more cut up about it
than we can be, so we must not blame him."
The good physician read the letter over several times before he finally
put it away in his note-book, and he did so with a thoughtful face which
showed that it was of importance. As it has an influence upon the
future course of our story we cannot end the chapter better than by
exercising our literary privilege, and peeping over the doctor's
shoulder before he has folded it up. This is the epistle
_in extenso_:--
"My Dear Father,
"You will be sorry to hear that I have failed in my exam.
I am very cut up about it, because I fear that it will
cause you grief and disappointment, and you deserve
neither the one nor the other at my hands."
"It is not an unmixed misfortune to me, because it helps
me to make a request which I have long had in my mind.
I wish you to allow me to give up the study of medicine
and to go in for commerce. You have never made a secret
of our money affairs to me, and I know that if I took my
degree there would never be any necessity for me to practise.
I should therefore have spent five years of my life in
acquiring knowledge which would not be of any immediate
use to me. I have no personal inclination towards medicine,
while I have a very strong objection to simply living in the
world upon money which other men have earned. I must therefore
turn to some fresh pursuit for my future career, and surely it
would be best that I should do so at once. What that fresh
pursuit is to be I leave to your judgment. Personally, I think
that if I embarked my capital in some commercial undertaking
I might by sticking to my work do well. I feel too much cast
down at my own failure to see you to-night, but to-morrow I hope
to hear what you think from your own lips."
"TOM."
"Perhaps this failure will do no harm after all," the doctor muttered
thoughtfully, as he folded up the letter and gazed out at the cold glare
of the northern sunset.