Part 5 (2/2)

”This is hardly the moment, Benton,” replied Mr. Cayley, ”for a disquisition on geology, but I appreciate your kindness in thinking of me. I will examine this specimen this afternoon, and cla.s.sify it for you.”

But Master Benton had no intention of permitting this.

”Does it belong to the glacial period, sir?” he inquired shyly. ”I thought these marks might have been caused by ice-pressure.”

There was a faint chuckle at the back of the room. It proceeded from the gentleman whose knife Benton had borrowed ten minutes before in order to furnish support for his glacial theory.

”It is impossible for me to say without my magnifying-gla.s.s,” replied Mr. Cayley, peering myopically at the stone. ”But from a cursory inspection I should imagine this particular specimen to be of an igneous nature. Where did you get it?”

”In the neck!” volunteered a voice.

Master Benton, whose cervical vertebrae the stone had nearly severed in the course of a friendly interchange of missiles with a playmate while walking up to school, hastened to cover the interruption.

”Among the Champion Pills, sir,” he announced gravely.

”The Grampian Hills?” said Mr. Cayley, greatly interested. He nodded his head. ”That may be so. Geologically speaking, some of these hills were volcanoes yesterday.”

”There was nothing about it in the _Daily Mail_ this morning,” objected a voice from the back benches.

”I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Cayley, looking up.

”It sounds like a fairy tale, sir,” amended the speaker.

”And so it is!” exclaimed Mr. Cayley, the geologist in him aroused at last. ”The whole history of Nature is a fairy tale. Cast your minds back for a thousand centuries.” ...

The form accepted this invitation to the extent of dismissing the pa.s.sage of unprepared translation from their thoughts for ever, and settling down with a grateful sigh, began to search their pockets for fresh provender. The seraph-like Benton slipped back into his seat. His mission was accomplished. The rest of the hour was provided for.

Three times in the past five years Mr. Cayley's colleagues had offered to present him with a testimonial. He could never understand why.

Mr. Bull was a young master, and an international football-player. Being one of the few members of the staff at Eaglescliffe who did not possess a first-cla.s.s degree, he had been entrusted with the care of the most difficult form in the school--the small boys, usually known as The Nippers.

A small boy is as different from a middle-sized boy as chalk from cheese. He possesses none of the latter's curious dignity and self-consciousness. He has the instincts of the puppy, and appreciates being treated as such. That is to say, he is physically incapable of sitting still for more than fifteen minutes at a time; he is never happy except in the company of a drove of other small boys; and he is infinitely more amenable to _fort.i.ter in re_ than to the _suaviter in modo_ where the enforcement of discipline is concerned. Above all, he would rather have his head smacked than be ignored.

Mr. Bull greeted his chattering flock with a hearty roar of salutation, coupled with a brisk command to them to get into their places and be quick about it. He was answered by a shrill and squeaky chorus, and having thrown open the form-room door herded the whole swarm within, a.s.sisting stragglers with a genial cuff or two; the which, coming from so great a hero, were duly cherished by their recipients as marks of special favour.

Having duly posted up the names and tender ages of his Nippers in his mark-book, Mr. Bull announced:

”Now we must appoint the Cabinet Ministers for the term.”

Instantly there came a piping chorus.

”Please, sir, can I be Scavenger?”

”Please, sir, can I be Obliterator?”

”Please, sir, can I be Window-opener?”

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