Chapter 4

THE BAITING OF A MASTER

The room in which the Sixth Form assembled for the lesson in Geometry was on the top floor of the Study building; the windows overlooked the pond behind the Gymnasium. The teacher's desk was on a platform in the corner; a blackboard extended along two walls; and there were steps beneath the blackboard on which the students stood to make their demonstrations.

Irving arrived a minute before the hour and found his class already assembled--a suspicious circumstance. There was, too, he felt, an air of subdued, joyous expectancy. He took his seat and, adjusting his spectacles, peered round the room; his eyesight was very bad, and he had, moreover, like so many bookworms, never trained his faculty of observation.

He read the roll of the class; every boy was there.

"Scarborough, you may go to the blackboard and demonstrate the Fifth Theorem; Dennison, you the Sixth; Westby, you the Eighth. The rest of you will solve at your seats this problem."

He mounted to the blackboard himself and wrote out the question. While he had his back turned, he heard some whispering; he looked over his shoulder. Westby was lingering in his seat and had obviously been holding communication with his neighbor.

"Westby,"--Irving's voice was sharp,--"were you trying to get help at the last moment?"

"I was not." Westby's answer was prompt.

"Then don't delay any longer, please; go to the blackboard at once."

"Yes, sir."

Westby moved to the blackboard on the side of the room--the one at right angles to that on which Irving and Scarborough were at work.

Irving finished his writing, dusted the chalk from his fingers, and returned to his seat. The boys before him were now bent industriously over their tablets; Scarborough, Westby, and Dennison were drawing figures on the blackboard, using the long pointers for rulers and making beautiful circles by means of chalk attached to pieces of string. A glance at Westby showed that youth apparently intent upon solving the problem assigned him and at work upon it intelligently. Irving began to feel serene; he proceeded to correct the algebra exercises of the Fourth Form, which he had received the hour before.

A sudden titter from some one down in front, hastily suppressed and transformed into a cough, caused him to look up. Morrill, with his mouth hidden behind his hand, was glancing off toward Westby, and Irving followed the direction of the glance.

Westby had completed his geometrical figures and was now engaged in labeling them with letters. But instead of employing the usual geometrical symbols A, B, C, and so on, he was skipping about through the alphabet, and Irving immediately perceived that he was not choosing letters at random. Irving observed that the initials of his own name, I, C, U, formed, as it were, the corner-stone of the geometrical edifice.

At that moment Westby coughed--an unnatural cough. And instantly a miracle happened; every single wooden eraser--there were half a dozen of them--leaped from its place on the shelf beneath the blackboard and tumbled clattering down the steps to the floor. At the same instant Westby flung up both arms, tottered on the topmost step, and succeeded in regaining his poise with apparently great difficulty.

The class giggled.

"Mr. Upton, sir! Mr. Upton, sir!" cried Westby excitedly. "Did you feel the earthquake? It was very noticeable on this side of the room. Do you think it's safe for us to stay indoors, sir? There may be another shock!"

"Westby," Irving's voice had a nervous thrill that for the moment quieted the laughter, "did you cause those erasers to be pulled down?"

"Did I cause them to be pulled down? I don't understand, sir. How could I, sir? Six of them all at once!"

"Bring me one of those erasers, please."

Westby stooped; there was a sound of snapping string. Then he came forward and presented the eraser.

"You tied string to all these erasers, did you?" Irving examined the fragment that still clung to the object. "And then arranged to have them pulled down?"

"You see how short that string is, sir; nobody could have reached it to pull it. Didn't you feel the earthquake, sir? Didn't you see how it almost threw me off my feet? Really, I don't believe it's quite safe to stay here--"

"You may be right; I shouldn't wonder at all if there was a second shock coming to you soon," said Irving, and the subdued chuckle that went round the class told him he had scored. "You may now demonstrate to the class the Theorem assigned you."

"Yes, sir." Westby turned and took up the pointer.

"We have here," he began, "the two triangles I C U and J A Y--with the angle I C U of the one equal to the angle J A Y of the other." The class tittered; Westby went on glibly, bending the lath-like pointer between his hands: "Let us now erect the angle K I D, equal to the angle I C U; then the angle K I D will also be equal to the angle J A Y--things equal to the same thing are equal to each other."

Westby stopped to turn a surprised, questioning look upon the snickering class.

"Yes, that will do for that demonstration," said Irving. He rose from his seat; his lips were trembling, and the laughter of the class ceased. "You may leave the room--for your insolence--at once!"

He had meant to be dignified and calm, but his anger had rushed to the surface, and his words came in a voice that suggested he was on the verge of tears.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't think I quite understand," said Westby suavely.

"You understand well enough. I ask you to leave the room."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Upton, that my little pleasantries--usually considered harmless--do not commend themselves to you. But you hurt my feelings very much, sir, when you apply such a harsh word as insolence to my whimsical humor--"

"I'll hold no argument with you," cried Irving; in his excitement his voice rose thin and thrill. "Leave the room at once."

Westby laid the pointer and the chalk on the shelf, blew the dust from his fingers, and walked towards his seat. Irving took a step forward; his face was white.

"What do you mean!--What do you mean! I told you to leave the room."

Westby faced him with composure through which showed a sneer; for the first time the boy was displaying contempt; hitherto his attitude had been jocose and cajoling.

"I was going for my cap," he said, and his eyes flashed scornfully. Then, regardless of the master's look, he continued past the row of his classmates, took up his cap, and retraced his steps towards the door. Irving stood watching him, with lips compressed in a stern line; the line thinned even more when he saw Westby bestow on his friends a droll, drooping wink of the left eyelid.

And then, while all the class sat in silence, Westby did an audacious thing--a thing that set every one except Irving off into a joyous titter. He went out of the door doing the sailor's hornpipe,--right hand on stomach, left hand on back, left hand on stomach, right hand on back, and taking little skips as he alternated the position. And so, skipping merrily, he disappeared down the corridor.

Irving returned to his platform. His hands were trembling, and he felt weak. When he spoke, he hardly knew his own voice. But he struggled to control it, and said,--

"Scarborough, please go to the board and demonstrate your theorem."

There was no more disorder in class that day; in fact, after Westby's disappearance the boys were exceptionally well behaved. Slowly Irving recovered his composure, yet the ordeal left him feeling as if he wanted to shut himself up in his room and lie down. He knew that he had lost command of his temper; he regretted the manner in which he had stormed at Westby; but he thought nevertheless that the treatment had been effective and therefore not entirely to be deplored. The boys had thought him soft; he had shown them that he was not; and he determined that from this time forth he would bear down upon them hard. If by showing them amiability and kindliness he had failed to win their respect, he would now compel it by ferocity. He would henceforth show no quarter to any malefactor.

Walking up to his room, he fell in with Barclay, who was also returning from a class.

"What is the extreme penalty one can inflict on a boy who misbehaves?" he asked.

"For a single act?" asked Barclay.

"For one that's a climax of others--insolence, disobedience, disorder--all heaped into one."

Irving spoke hotly, and Barclay glanced at him with a sympathetic interest.

"Well," said Barclay, "three sheets and six marks off in decorum is about the limit. After that happens to a boy two or three times, the rector is likely to take a hand.--If you don't mind my saying it, though--in my opinion it's a mistake to start in by being extreme."

"In ordinary cases, perhaps." Irving's tone did not invite questioning, and he did not confide to Barclay what extraordinary case he had under consideration.

When he reached his room, he wrote out on a slip of paper, "Westby, insolence and disorder in class, three sheets," and laid the paper on his desk. Then he undertook to correct the exercises in geometry which had been the fruit of the Sixth Form's labors in the last hour; but after going through five or six of them, his mind wandered; it reverted uneasily to the thought of his future relations with those boys. He rose and paced about the room, and hardened his heart. He would be just as strict and stern and severe with them all as he possibly could be. When he had them well trained, he might attempt to win their liking--if that seemed any longer worth having! It did not seem so to him now; all he wanted to know now was that he had awakened in them respect and fear.

Respect and fear--could he have inspired those, by his excitable shriekings in the class room, by his lack of self-control in dormitory and at the dinner table, by his incompetence when confronted with a roast of beef! Each incident that recurred to him was of a kind to bring with it the sting of mortification; his cheeks tingled. He must at least learn how to perform the simple duties expected of a master; he could not afford to continue giving exhibitions of ignorance and incompetence.

Moved by this impulse, he descended to the kitchen--precincts which he had never before entered and in which his appearance created at first some consternation. The cook, however, was obliging; and when he had confessed himself the incapable one who had sent out the mutilated beef to be carved, she was most reassuring in her speech, and taking the cold remains of a similar cut from the ice chest, she gave him an object lesson. She demonstrated to him how he should begin the attack, how he might foil the bone that existed only to baffle, how slice after slice might fall beneath his sure and rapid slashes.

"I see," said Irving, taking the knife and fork from her and making some imaginary passes. "The fork so--the knife so. And you will always be sure to have a sharp carving knife for me--very sharp?"

The cook smiled and promised, and he extravagantly left her contemplating a dollar bill.

Shortly after he had returned to his room the bell on the Study building rang, announcing the end of the morning session. There was half an hour before luncheon; soon the boys came tramping up the stairs and past Irving's closed door. Soon also a racketing began in the corridors; Irving suspected an intention to bait him still further; it was probably Westby once again. He waited until the noise became too great to be ignored--shouting and battering and scuffling; then he went forth to quell it.

To his surprise Westby was not engaged in the disturbance--was, in fact, not visible. Collingwood, with his back turned, was in the act of hurling a football to the farther end of the corridor, where Scarborough and Morrill and Dennison were gathered. The forward pass was new in football this year, and although the playing season had not yet begun, Irving had already seen fellows practicing for it, in front of the Study and behind the dormitory. Collingwood, he knew, was captain of the school football eleven, and naturally had all the latest developments of the game, such as the forward pass, very much on his mind. Still that was no excuse for playing football in the corridor.

Morrill had caught the ball, and as Irving approached, undertook to return it. But it ricochetted against the wall and bounced down at Collingwood's feet. Collingwood seized it and was poising it in his hand for another throw when Irving spoke behind him--sharply, for he was mindful of his resolve to be severe:--

"No more of that, Collingwood."

The boy turned eagerly and said,--

"Oh, Mr. Upton, I'm just getting on to how to do it. Here, let me show you. You take it this way, along the lacings--the trouble is, my hand's not quite long enough to get a good grip--and then you take it like this--"

"Yes," said Irving coldly; he had an idea that Collingwood had adopted Westby's method and was engaged in chaffing him. "You needn't show me."

And he turned abruptly and went into his room, closing the door behind him.

Collingwood stood, looking round over his shoulder after Irving and holding the ball out in the arrested attitude of one about to throw. On his face was an expression of utter amazement, which rapidly gave place to indignation. Collingwood had a temper, and sometimes--even when he was not on the football field--it flared up.

"Of all the chumps!" he muttered; and he turned, and poising the ball again, flung it with all his strength at the master's door. It went straight to the mark, crashed against the upper panel with a tremendous bang, and rebounded to Collingwood's feet.

Irving opened the door and came out with a leap.

"Collingwood," he cried, and his voice was quivering as it had quivered that morning in class, "did you throw that ball?"

"I did," said Collingwood.

"Very well. I shall report you. I will have no more of this insolence."

He swung round and shut himself again in his room. The fellows at the other end of the corridor had stood aghast; now they came hurrying up. Collingwood was laughing.

"Kiddy's getting to be a regular lion," he said, and when Morrill and Dennison were for expressing their indignation, he only laughed the more.

It was not very pleasant for Irving at luncheon. Westby gave him an amused glance when he came in--more amused than hostile--and Irving preserved his dignity by returning an unflinching look. Westby made no further overtures for a while; the other boys chattered among themselves, about football and tennis, and Irving sat silent at the head of the table. At last, however, Westby turned to him.

"Mr. Upton," said Westby deferentially, "how would you explain this? There's a dog, and he must be doing one of two things; either he's running or he's not running. If he's not doing the one, he is doing the other, isn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Irving.

"Well, he's not running. Therefore--he is running. How do you explain that, Mr. Upton?"

Irving smiled feebly; the other boys were thinking it over with puzzled faces.

"That's an old quibble," said Irving. "The alternative for running is not running. Therefore when he's not running--he's _not_ running."

"I don't see that that explains it," answered Westby. "That's just making a statement--but it isn't logic."

"He's not running is the negative of he's running; he's not not-running is the negative of he's not running--"

"Then," said Westby, "how fast must a dog travel that is not not-running to catch a dog that is not exactly running but only perhaps?"

The boys laughed; Irving retorted, "That's a problem that you might work out on the blackboard sometime."

Thereupon Westby became silent, and Irving more than half repented of his speech; he knew that in its reference it had been ill-natured.

He noticed later in the day when he went up to the dormitory that the boys tiptoed about the corridors and conversed in whispers; there was an extravagant air of quiet. When they went down to supper, they tiptoed past Irving's room in single file, saying in unison, "Sh! Sh! Sh!" They all joined in this procession--from Collingwood to Allison. Irving felt that he had taken Allison's place as the laughing-stock, the butt of the dormitory.

In the evening they came to bid him good-night--not straggling up as they usually did, but in a delegation, expectant and amused. Westby and Collingwood were in the van when Irving opened his door in response to the knock.

"We didn't know whether you'd shake hands with two such reprobates or not," said Westby. "We thought it wasn't quite safe to come up alone--so we've brought a bodyguard."

Irving did not smile, though, all the boys were grinning. He shook hands formally with Collingwood, then with Westby, then with the others, saying good-night to each; as they left him, they tiptoed to their rooms. He thought grimly that, whatever might be the sentiments entertained towards him, he would not long be living in an atmosphere of ridicule.

Irving had charge of the "big study," as it was called, during the hour immediately after morning chapel. The boys filed in from chapel and seated themselves at their desks; the members of the Sixth Form, who were privileged to study in their rooms and therefore had no desks in the schoolroom, occupied the stalls along the wall under the big clock. Last of all the rector entered and, mounting the platform, read the "reports" for the day--that is, the names of those who had transgressed and the penalties imposed. After the reading, the Sixth Form went upstairs to their Latin class with Mr. Barclay, and the day's work began.

On the morning following his encounters with Westby and with Collingwood, Irving as usual took charge of the Study. The boys assembled; Irving rang the bell, reducing them to quiet; Dr. Davenport came in, mounted the platform, and took up the report book--in which Irving had just finished transcribing his entries.

Dr. Davenport began reading in his clear, emphatic voice, "Out of bounds, Mason, Sterrett, Coyle, one sheet; late to study, Hart, McQuiston, Durfee, Stratton, Kane, half a sheet; tardy to breakfast--" and so on. None of the offenses were very serious; and the rector read them out rapidly. But at last he paused a moment; and then, looking up from the book, he said, with grave distinctness, "Disorderly in class and insolent, Westby, three sheets; disorderly in dormitory and insolent, Collingwood, three sheets."

He closed the book; a stir, a thrill of interest, ran round the room. For a Sixth Former to be charged with such offenses and condemned to such punishment was rare: for Collingwood, who was in a sense the leader of the school, to be so charged and punished was unprecedented.

Collingwood, sitting directly under the clock, and facing so many curious questioning eyes, turned red; Westby, standing by the door, looked at him and smiled. At the same time, Dr. Davenport, closing the report-book, leaned towards Irving and said quietly in his ear,--

"Mr. Upton, I should like to see you about those last two reports--immediately after this study hour."

Irving reddened; the rector's manner was not approving.

Dr. Davenport descended from the platform and walked slowly down the aisle. As he approached, he looked straight at Westby; and Westby returned the look steadily--as if he was ashamed of nothing.

The rector passed through the doorway; the Sixth Form followed; the day's work began.