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| By Wilfred T. Grenfell |
| |
| |
| A LABRADOR DOCTOR. The Autobiography of |
| Wilfred Thomason Grenfell. Illustrated. |
| |
| LABRADOR DAYS. Tales of the Sea Toilers. |
| With frontispiece. |
| |
| TALES OF THE LABRADOR. With frontispiece. |
| |
| THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE. |
| |
| ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN. Illustrated. |
| |
| HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY |
| BOSTON AND NEW YORK |
+-------------------------------------------------+
A LABRADOR DOCTOR
The Autobiography of
Wilfred Thomason Grenfell
[Illustration: (signed) Wilfred Grenfell]
A LABRADOR DOCTOR
The Autobiography of
Wilfred Thomason Grenfell
M.D. (Oxon.), C.M.G.
With Illustrations
[Illustration]
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
Copyright, 1919, by Wilfred T. Grenfell
All Rights Reserved
PREFACE
I have long been resisting the strong pressure from friends that would
force me to risk having to live alongside my own autobiography. It
seems still an open question whether it is advisable, or even whether
it is right--seeing that it calls for confessions. In the eyes of God
the only alternative is a book of lies. Moreover, sitting down to
write one's own life story has always loomed up before my imagination
as an admission that one was passing the post which marks the last
lap; and though it was a justly celebrated physician who told us that
we might profitably crawl upon the shelf at half a century, that added
no attraction for me to the effort, when I passed that goal.
Thirty-two years spent in work for deep-sea fishermen, twenty-seven of
which years have been passed in Labrador and northern Newfoundland,
have necessarily given me some experiences which may be helpful to
others. I feel that this alone justifies the writing of this story.
To the many helpers who have cooperated with me at one time or another
throughout these years, I owe a debt of gratitude which will never be
forgotten, though it has been impossible to mention each one by name.
Without them this work could never have been.
To my wife, who was willing to leave all the best the civilized world
can offer to share my life on this lonely coast, I want to dedicate
this book. Truth forces me to own that it would never have come into
being without her, and her greater share in the work of its production
declares her courage to face the consequences.
CONTENTS
I. EARLY DAYS 1
II. SCHOOL LIFE 15
III. EARLY WORK IN LONDON 37
IV. AT THE LONDON HOSPITAL 64
V. NORTH SEA WORK 99
VI. THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR 119
VII. THE PEOPLE OF LABRADOR 139
VIII. LECTURING AND CRUISING 159
IX. THE SEAL FISHERY 171
X. THREE YEARS' WORK IN THE BRITISH ISLES 183
XI. FIRST WINTER AT ST. ANTHONY 197
XII. THE COOPERATIVE MOVEMENT 215
XIII. THE MILL AND THE FOX FARM 226
XIV. THE CHILDREN'S HOME 241
XV. PROBLEMS OF EDUCATION 254
XVI. "WHO HATH DESIRED THE SEA?" 270
XVII. THE REINDEER EXPERIMENT 288
XVIII. THE ICE-PAN ADVENTURE 304
XIX. THEY THAT DO BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS 315
XX. MARRIAGE 331
XXI. NEW VENTURES 344
XXII. PROBLEMS ON LAND AND SEA 357
XXIII. A MONTH'S HOLIDAY IN ASIA MINOR 376
XXIV. THE WAR 384
XXV. FORWARD STEPS 403
XXVI. THE FUTURE OF THE MISSION 411
XXVII. MY RELIGIOUS LIFE 424
INDEX 435
ILLUSTRATIONS
WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL _Frontispiece_
VIEW FROM MOSTYN HOUSE, THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHPLACE, PARKGATE,
CHESHIRE 2
OXFORD UNIVERSITY RUGBY UNION FOOTBALL TEAM 44
THE LABRADOR COAST 120
ESKIMO WOMAN AND BABY 128
ESKIMO MAN 128
ESKIMO GIRLS 132
BATTLE HARBOUR 140
A LABRADOR BURIAL 156
THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN SUMMER 164
THE STRATHCONA 192
THREE OF THE DOCTOR'S DOGS 198
A KOMATIK JOURNEY 202
THE FIRST COOPERATIVE STORE 218
ST. ANTHONY 226
INSIDE THE ORPHANAGE 250
FISH ON THE FLAKES 272
DRYING THE SEINES 272
A PART OF THE REINDEER HERD 296
REINDEER TEAMS MEETING A DOG TEAM 296
A SPRING SCENE AT ST. ANTHONY 304
DOG RACE AT ST. ANTHONY 304
ICEBERGS 320
COMMODORE PEARY ON HIS WAY BACK FROM THE POLE, 1909 340
THE INSTITUTE, ST. JOHN'S 354
DOG TRAVEL 368
THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN WINTER 406
ENTRANCE TO ST. ANTHONY HARBOUR 418
A LABRADOR DOCTOR
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
To be born on the 28th of February is not altogether without its
compensations. It affords a subject of conversation when you are asked
to put your name in birthday books. It is evident that many people
suppose it to be almost an intrusion to appear on that day. However,
it was perfectly satisfactory to me so long as it was not the 29th. As
a boy, that was all for which I cared. Still, I used at times to be
oppressed by the danger, so narrowly missed, of growing up with undue
deliberation.
The event occurred in 1865 in Parkgate, near Chester, England, whither
my parents had moved to enable my father to take over the school of
his uncle. I was always told that what might be called boisterous
weather signalled my arrival. Experience has since shown me that that
need not be considered a particularly ominous portent in the winter
season on the Sands of Dee.
It is fortunate that the selection of our birthplace is not left to
ourselves. It would most certainly be one of those small decisions
which would later add to the things over which we worry. I can see how
it would have acted in my own case. For my paternal forbears are
really of Cornish extraction--a corner of our little Island to which
attaches all the romantic aroma of the men, who, in defence of
England, "swept the Spanish Main," and so long successfully singed the
Bang of Spain's beard, men whose exploits never fail to stir the best
blood of Englishmen, and among whom my direct ancestors had the
privilege of playing no undistinguished part. On the other hand, my
visits thither have--romance aside--convinced me that the restricted
foreshore and the precipitous cliffs are a handicap to the development
of youth, compared with the broad expanses of tempting sands, which
are after all associated with another kinsman, whose songs have helped
to make them famous, Charles Kingsley.
My mother was born in India, her father being a colonel of many
campaigns, and her brother an engineer officer in charge during the
siege of Lucknow till relieved by Sir Henry Havelock. At the first
Delhi Durbar no less than forty-eight of my cousins met, all being
officers either of the Indian military or civil service.
To the modern progressive mind the wide sands are a stumbling-block.
Silting up with the years, they have closed the river to navigation,
and converted our once famous Roman city of Chester into a sleepy,
second-rate market-town. The great flood of commerce from the New
World sweeps contemptuously past our estuary, and finds its
clearing-house under the eternal, assertive smoke clouds which
camouflage the miles of throbbing docks and slums called
Liverpool--little more than a dozen miles distant. But the
heather-clad hills of Heswall, and the old red sandstone ridge, which
form the ancient borough of the "Hundred of Wirral," afford an
efficient shelter from the insistent taint of out-of-the-worldness.
Every inch of the Sands of Dee were dear to me. I learned to know
their every bank and gutter. Away beyond them there was a mystery in
the blue hills of the Welsh shore, only cut off from us children in
reality by the narrow, rapid water of the channel we called the Deep.
Yet they seemed so high and so far away. The people there spoke a
different language from ours, and all their instincts seemed
diverse. Our humble neighbours lived by the seafaring genius which we
ourselves loved so much. They made their living from the fisheries of
the river mouth; and scores of times we children would slip away, and
spend the day and night with them in their boats.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM MOSTYN HOUSE, THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHPLACE,
PARKGATE, CHESHIRE]
While I was still quite a small boy, a terrible blizzard struck the
estuary while the boats were out, and for twenty-four hours one of the
fishing craft was missing. Only a lad of sixteen was in charge of
her--a boy whom we knew, and with whom we had often sailed. All my
family were away from home at the time except myself; and I can still
remember the thrill I experienced when, as representative of the "Big
House," I was taken to see the poor lad, who had been brought home at
last, frozen to death.
The men of the opposite shores were shopkeepers and miners. Somehow we
knew that they couldn't help it. The nursery rhyme about "Taffy was a
Welshman; Taffy was a thief," because familiar, had not led us to hold
any unduly inflated estimate of the Welsh character. One of my old
nurses did much to redeem it, however. She had undertaken the burden
of my brother and myself during a long vacation, and carried us off
bodily to her home in Wales. Her clean little cottage stood by the
side of a road leading to the village school of the State Mining
District of Festiniog. We soon learned that the local boys resented
the intrusion of the two English lads, and they so frequently chased
us off the village green, which was the only playground offered us,
that we at last decided to give battle. We had stored up a pile of
slates behind our garden wall, and luring the enemy to the gates by
the simple method of retiring before their advance, we saluted them
with artillery fire from a comparatively safe entrenchment. To my
horror, one of the first missiles struck a medium-sized boy right over
the eye, and I saw the blood flow instantly. The awful comparison of
David and Goliath flashed across my terror-stricken mind, and I fled
incontinently to my nurse's protection. Subsequently by her adroit
diplomacy, we were not only delivered from justice, but gained the
freedom of the green as well.
Far away up the river came the great salt-water marshes which seemed
so endless to our tiny selves. There was also the Great Cop, an
embankment miles long, intended to reach "from England to Wales," but
which was never finished because the quicksand swallowed up all that
the workmen could pour into it. Many a time I have stood on the broken
end, where the discouraged labourers had left their very shovels and
picks and trucks and had apparently fled in dismay, as if convicted of
the impiousness of trying to fill the Bottomless Pit. To my childish
imagination the upturned wheelbarrows and wasted trucks and rails
always suggested the banks of the Red Sea after the awful disaster had
swept over Pharoah and his host. How the returning tide used to sweep
through that to us fathomless gulch! It made the old river seem ever
so much more wonderful, and ever so much more filled with adventure.
Many a time, just to dare it, I would dive into the very cauldron, and
let the swirling current carry me to the grassy sward beyond--along
which I would run till the narrowing channel permitted my crossing to
the Great Cop again. I would be drying myself in the sunshine as I
went, and all ready for my scanty garments when I reached my clothing
once more.
Then came the great days when the heavy nor'westers howled over the
Sands--our sea-front was exposed to all the power of the sea right
away to the Point of Ayr--the days when they came in with big spring
tides, when we saw the fishermen doubling their anchors, and carefully
overhauling the holding gear of their boats, before the flooding tide
drove them ashore, powerless to do more than watch them battling at
their moorings like living things--the possessions upon which their
very bread depended. And then this one would sink, and another would
part her cable and come hurtling before the gale, until she crashed
right into the great upright blocks of sandstone which, riveted with
iron bands to their copings, were relied upon to hold the main road
from destruction. Sometimes in fragments, and sometimes almost entire,
the craft would be slung clean over the torturing battlements, and be
left stranded high and dry on our one village street, a menace to
traffic, but a huge joy to us children.
The fascination of the Sands was greatly enhanced by the numerous
birds which at all times frequented them, in search of the abundant
food which lay buried along the edges of the muddy gutters. There were
thousands of sandpipers in enormous flocks, mixed with king plovers,
dunlins, and turnstones, which followed the ebb tides, and returned
again in whirling clouds before the oncoming floods. Black-and-white
oyster-catchers were always to be found chattering over the great
mussel patches at low water. With their reddish bills, what a trophy a
bunch of them made as we bore them proudly home over our shoulders!
Then there were the big long-billed curlews. What a triumph when one
outwitted them! One of my clearest recollections is discovering a
place to which they were flighting at night by the water's edge; how,
having no dog, I swam out for bird after bird as they fell to my
gun--shooting some before I had even time to put on my shirt again;
and my consequent blue-black shoulder, which had to be carefully
hidden next day. There were wild ducks, too, to be surprised in the
pools of the big salt marshes.
From daylight to dark I would wander, quite alone, over endless miles,
entirely satisfied to come back with a single bird, and not in the
least disheartened if I got none. All sense of time used to be lost,
and often enough the sandwich and biscuit for lunch forgotten, so that
I would be forced occasionally to resort to a solitary public house
near a colliery on our side of the water, for "tea-biscuits," all that
they offered, except endless beer for the miners. I can even remember,
when very hard driven, crossing to the Welsh side for bread and
cheese.
These expeditions were made barefoot as long as the cold was not too
great. A diary that I assayed to keep in my eighth year reminds me
that on my birthday, five miles from home in the marshes, I fell head
over heels into a deep hole, while wading out, gun in hand, after some
oyster-catchers which I had shot. The snow was still deep on the
countryside, and the long trot home has never been quite forgotten. My
grief, however, was all for the gun. There was always the joy of
venture in those dear old Sands. The channels cut in them by the
flowing tides ran deep, and often intersected. Moreover, they changed
with the varying storms. The rapidly rising tide, which sent a bore up
the main channel as far as Chester, twelve miles above us, filled
first of all these treacherous waterways, quite silently, and often
unobserved. To us, taught to be as much at home in the water as on the
land, they only added spice to our wanderings. They were nowhere very
wide, so by keeping one's head, and being able to swim, only our
clothes suffered by it, and they, being built for that purpose, did
not complain.
One day, however, I remember great excitement. The tide had risen
rapidly in the channel along the parade front, and the shrimp
fishermen, who used push-nets in the channels at low tide, had
returned without noticing that one of their number was missing. Word
got about just too late, and already there was half a mile of water,
beyond which, through our telescopes, we could see the poor fellow
making frantic signals to the shore. There was no boat out there, and
a big bank intervening, there seemed no way to get to him. Watching
through our glasses, we saw him drive the long handle of his net deep
into the sand, and cling to it, while the tide rose speedily around
him. Meanwhile a whole bevy of his mates had rowed out to the bank,
and were literally carrying over its treacherous surface one of their
clumsy and heavy fishing punts. It was a veritable race for life; and
never have I watched one with keener excitement. We actually saw his
post give way, and wash downstream with him clinging to it, just
before his friends got near. Fortunately, drifting with the spar, he
again found bottom, and was eventually rescued, half full of salt
water. I remember how he fell in my estimation as a seaman--though I
was only a boy at the time.
There were four of us boys in all, of whom I was the second. My next
brother Maurice died when he was only seven, and the fourth, Cecil,
being five years younger than I, left my brother Algernon and myself
as the only real companions for each other. Moreover, an untoward
accident, of which I was the unwitting cause, left my younger brother
unable to share our play for many years. Having no sisters, and
scarcely any boy friends, in the holidays, when all the boys in the
school went home, it might be supposed that my elder brother and I
were much thrown together. But as a matter of fact such was not the
case, for our temperaments being entirely different, and neither of us
having any idea of giving way to the other, we seldom or ever found
our pleasures together. And yet most of the worst scrapes into which
we fell were cooperative affairs. Though I am only anxious to shoulder
my share of the responsibility in the escapades, as well as in every
other line of life, my brother Algernon possessed any genius to which
the family could lay claim, in that as in every other line. He was my
father over again, while I was a second edition of my mother. Father
was waiting to get into the sixth form at Rugby when he was only
thirteen years old. He was a brilliant scholar at Balliol, but had
been compelled to give up study and leave the University temporarily
owing to brain trouble. He never published anything, but would reel
off brilliant short poems or essays for friends at a moment's notice.
I used always to remark that in whatever company he was, he was always
deferred to as an authority in anything approaching classics. He could
read and quote Greek and Latin like English, spoke German and French
fluently, while he was an excellent geologist, and Fellow of the
Geographical Society. Here is quite a pretty little effusion of his
written at eight years of age:
O, Glorious Sun, in thy palace of light,
To behold thee methinks is a beautiful sight.
O, Glorious Sun, come out of thy cloud,
No longer thy brightness in darkness shroud.
Let thy glorious beams like a golden Flood
Pour over the hills and the valleys and wood.
See! Mountains of light around him rise,
While he in a golden ocean lies:
O, Glorious Sun, in thy Palace of Light
To behold thee methinks is a beautiful sight.
Algernon Sydney Grenfell
Aged eight years
Some of my brother's poems and hymns have been published in the school
magazine, or printed privately; but he, too, has only published a
Spanish grammar, a Greek lexicon, and a few articles in the papers.
While at Oxford he ran daily, with some friends, during one "eights
week" a cynical comic paper called "The Rattle," to boost some
theories he held, and which he wished to enforce, and also to "score"
a few of the dons to whom he objected. This would have resulted in his
being asked to retire for a season from the seat of learning at the
request of his enemies, had not our beloved provost routed the special
cause of the whole trouble, who was himself contributing to a London
society paper, by replying that it was not to be wondered at if the
scurrilous rags of London found an echo in Oxford. Moreover, a set of
"The Rattle" was ordered to be bound and placed in the college
archives, where it may still be seen.
My father having a very great deal of responsibility and worry during
the long school terms, as he was not only head master, but owned the
school as well, which he had purchased from his great-uncle, used to
leave almost the day the holidays began and travel abroad with my
mother. This partly accounts for the very unusual latitude allowed to
us boys in coming and going from the house--no one being anxious if
now and again we did not return at night. The school matron was left
in charge of the vast empty barracks, and we had the run of
play-field, gymnasium, and everything else we wanted. To outwit the
matron was always considered fair play by us boys, and on many
occasions we were more than successful.
One time, when we had been acquiring some new lines of thought from
some trashy boys' books of the period, we became fired with the desire
to enjoy the ruling passion of the professional burglar. Though never
kept short of anything, we decided that one night we would raid the
large school storeroom while the matron slept. As always, the planning
was entrusted to my brother. It was, of course, a perfectly easy
affair, but we played the whole game "according to Cavendish." We let
ourselves out of the window at midnight, glued brown paper to the
window panes, cut out the putty, forced the catch, and stole sugar,
currants, biscuits, and I am ashamed to say port wine--which we mulled
in a tin can over the renovated fire in the matron's own sanctum. In
the morning the remainder was turned over to fishermen friends who
were passing along shore on their way to catch the early tide.
I had no share in two other of my brother's famous escapades, though
at the time it was a source of keen regret, for we were sent to
different public schools, as being, I suppose, incompatible. But we
heard with pride how he had extracted phosphorus from the chemical
laboratory and while drawing luminous ghosts on the wall for the
benefit of the timorous, had set fire to the large dormitory and the
boys' underclothing neatly laid out on the beds, besides burning
himself badly. Later he pleaded guilty to beeswaxing the seat of the
boys in front of him in chapel, much to the detriment of their
trousers and the destruction of the dignity of Sunday worship.
During the time that my parents were away we never found a moment in
which to be lonely, but on one occasion it occurred to us that the
company of some friends would add to our enjoyment. Why we waited till
my father and mother departed I do not know, but I recall that
immediately they had gone we spent a much-valued sixpence in
telegraphing to a cousin in London to come down to us for the
holidays. Our message read: "Dear Sid. Come down and stay the
holidays. Father has gone to Aix." We were somewhat chagrined to
receive the following day an answer, also by wire: "Not gone yet.
Father." It appeared that my father and mother had stayed the night in
London in the very house to which we had wired, and Sid. having to ask
his father's permission in order to get his railway fare, our uncle
had shown the invitation to my father. It was characteristic of my
parents that Sid. came duly along, but they could not keep from
sharing the joke with my uncle.
During term-time some of our grown-up relatives would occasionally
visit us. But alas, it was only their idiosyncrasies which used to
make any impression upon us. One, a great-uncle, and a very
distinguished person, being Professor of Political Economy at Oxford,
and a great friend of the famous Dr. Jowett, the chancellor, was the
only man we knew who ever, at any time, stood up long to my father in
argument. It was only on rare occasions that we ever witnessed such a
contest, but I shall never forget one which took place in the evening
in our drawing-room. My great-uncle was a small man, rather stout and
pink, and almost bald-headed. He got so absorbed in his arguments,
which he always delivered walking up and down, that on this occasion,
coming to an old-fashioned sofa, he stepped right up onto the seat,
climbed over the back, and went on all the time with his remarks, as
if only punctuating them thereby.
Whether some of our pranks were suggested by those of which we heard,
I do not remember. One of my father's yarns, however, always stuck in
my memory. For once, being in a very good humour, he told us how when
some distinguished old lady had come to call on his father--a house
master with Arnold at Rugby--he had been especially warned not to
interrupt this important person, who had come to see about her son's
entering my grandfather's "House." It so happened that quite
unconsciously the lady in question had seated herself on an old
cane-bottomed armchair in which father had been playing, thus
depriving him temporarily of a toy with which he desired to amuse
himself. He never, even in later life, was noted for undue patience,
and after endeavouring in vain to await her departure, he somehow
secured a long pin. With this he crawled from behind under the seat,
and by discreetly probing upwards, succeeded suddenly in dislodging
his enemy.
Our devotions on Sunday were carried out in the parish church of the
village of Neston, there being no place of worship of the Established
Church in our little village. In term-time we were obliged to go
morning and evening to the long services, which never made any
concessions to youthful capacities. So in holiday-time, though it was
essential that we should go in the morning to represent the house, we
were permitted to stay home in the evening. But even the mornings were
a time of great weariness, and oft-recurrent sermons on the terrible
fate which awaited those who never went to church, and the still more
untoward end which was in store for frequenters of dissenting
meeting-houses, failed to awaken in us the respect due to the
occasion.
On the way to church we had generally to pass by those who dared even
the awful fate of the latter. It was our idea that to tantalize us
they wore especially gorgeous apparel while we had to wear black Etons
and a top hat--which, by the way, greatly annoyed us. One waistcoat
especially excited our animosity, and from it we conceived the title
"specklebelly," by which we ever afterwards designated the whole
"genus nonconformist." The entrance to the chapel (ours was the
Church!) was through a door in a high wall, over which we could not
see; and my youthful brain used to conjure up unrighteous and strange
orgies which we felt must take place in those precincts which we were
never permitted to enter. Our Sunday Scripture lessons had grounded us
very familiarly with the perverse habits of that section of the Chosen
People who _would_ serve Baal and Moloch, when it obviously paid so
much better not to do so. But although we counted the numbers which we
saw going in, and sometimes met them coming out, they seemed never to
lessen perceptibly. On this account our minds, with the merciless
logic of childhood, gradually discounted the threatened calamities.
This must have accounted for the lapse in our own conduct, and a sort
of comfortable satisfaction that the Almighty contented Himself in
merely counting noses in the pews. For even though it was my brother
who got into trouble, I shall never forget the harangue on impiety
that awaited us when a most unchristian sexton reported to our father
that the pew in front of ours had been found chalked on the back, so
as to make its occupants the object of undisguised attention from the
rest of the congregation. As circumstantial evidence also against us,
he offered some tell-tale squares of silver paper, on which we had
been cooking chocolates on the steam pipes during the sermon.
In all my childhood I can only remember one single punishment, among
not a few which I received, which I resented--and for years I never
quite forgot it. Some one had robbed a very favourite apple tree in
our orchard--an escapade of which I was perfectly capable, but in this
instance had not had the satisfaction of sharing. Some evidence had
been lodged against me, of which I was not informed, and I therefore
had no opportunity to challenge it. I was asked before a whole class
of my schoolmates if I had committed the act, and at once denied it.
Without any hearing I was adjudged guilty, and promptly subjected to
the punishment of the day--a good birching. On every occasion on which
we were offered the alternative of detention, we invariably "plumped"
for the rod, and got it over quickly, and, as we considered,
creditably--taking it smiling as long as we could. But that one act of
injustice, the disgrace which it carried of making me a liar before my
friends, seared my very soul. I vowed I would get even whatever it
cost, and I regret to say that I hadn't long to wait the opportunity.
For I scored both the apples and the lie against the punishment before
many months. Nor was I satisfied then. It rankled in my mind both by
day and by night; and it taught me an invaluable lesson--never to
suspect or condemn rashly. It was one of Dr. Arnold's boys at Rugby, I
believe, who summed up his master's character by saying, "The head was
a beast, but he was always a just beast."
At fourteen years of age my brother was sent to Repton, to the house
of an uncle by marriage--an arrangement which has persuaded me never
to send boys to their relatives for training. My brother's pranks were
undoubtedly many, but they were all boyish and legitimate ones. After
a time, however, he was removed at his own request, and sent to
Clifton, where he was head of the school, and the school house also,
under Dr. Percival, the late Bishop of Hereford. From there he took an
open scholarship for Oxford.
It was most wisely decided to send us to separate schools, and
therefore at fourteen I found myself at Marlborough--a school of
nearly six hundred resident boys, on entering which I had won a
scholarship.