I had not been at Sanstead House two days before doubts began to creep in on this point. What the boy, observing the assistant-master standing about in apparently magnificent idleness, does not realize is that the unfortunate is really putting in a spell of exceedingly hard work. He is “taking duty.” And “taking duty” is a thing to be remembered, especially by a man who, like myself, has lived a life of fatted ease, protected from all the minor annoyances of life by a substantial income.
Sanstead House educated me. It startled me. It showed me a hundred ways in which I had allowed myself to become soft and inefficient, without being aware of it. There may be other professions which call for a fiercer display of energy, but for the man with a private income who has loitered through life at his own pace, a little schoolmastering is brisk enough to be a wonderful tonic.
I needed it, and I got it.
It was almost as if Mr. Abney had realized intuitively how excellent the discipline of work was for my soul, for the kindly man allowed me to do not only my own, but most of his as well. I have talked with assistant-masters since, and I have gathered from them that headmasters of private schools are divided into two classes: the workers and the runners-up-to-London. Mr. Abney belonged to the latter class. Indeed, I doubt if a finer representative of the class could have been found in the length and breadth of southern England. London drew him like a magnet.
After breakfast he would take me aside. The formula was always the same.
“Ah—Mr. Burns.”
Myself (apprehensively, scenting disaster, “like some wild creature caught within a trap, who sees the trapper coming through the wood”). “Yes? Er—yes?”
“I am afraid I shall be obliged to run up to London today. I have received an important letter from—” And then he would name some parent or some prospective parent. (By “prospective” I mean one who was thinking of sending his son to Sanstead House. You may have twenty children, but unless you send them to his school, a schoolmaster will refuse to dignify you with the name of parent.)
Then, “He wishes—ah—to see me,” or, in the case of titled parents, “He wishes—ah—to talk things over with me.” The distinction is subtle, but he always made it.
And presently the cab would roll away down the long drive, and my work would begin, and with it that soul-discipline to which I have alluded.
“Taking duty” makes certain definite calls upon a man. He has to answer questions; break up fights; stop big boys bullying small boys; prevent small boys bullying smaller boys; check stone-throwing, going-on-the-wet-grass, worrying-the-cook, teasing-the-dog, making-too-much-noise, and, in particular, discourage all forms of hara-kiri such as tree-climbing, waterspout-scaling, leaning-too-far-out-of-the-window, sliding-down-the-banisters, pencil-swallowing, and ink-drinking-because-somebody-dared-me-to.
At intervals throughout the day there are further feats to perform. Carving the joint, helping the pudding, playing football, reading prayers, teaching, herding stragglers in for meals, and going round the dormitories to see that the lights are out, are a few of them.
I wanted to oblige Cynthia, if I could, but there were moments during the first day or so when I wondered how on earth I was going to snatch the necessary time to combine kidnapping with my other duties. Of all the learned professions it seemed to me that that of the kidnapper most urgently demanded certain intervals for leisured thought, in which schemes and plots might be matured.
Schools vary. Sanstead House belonged to the more difficult class. Mr. Abney’s constant flittings did much to add to the burdens of his assistants, and his peculiar reverence for the aristocracy did even more. His endeavour to make Sanstead House a place where the delicately nurtured scions of the governing class might feel as little as possible the temporary loss of titled mothers led him into a benevolent tolerance which would have unsettled angels.
Success or failure for an assistant-master is, I consider, very much a matter of luck. My colleague, Glossop, had most of the qualities that make for success, but no luck. Properly backed up by Mr. Abney, he might have kept order. As it was, his classroom was a bear-garden, and, when he took duty, chaos reigned.
I, on the other hand, had luck. For some reason the boys agreed to accept me. Quite early in my sojourn I enjoyed that sweetest triumph of the assistant-master’s life, the spectacle of one boy smacking another boy’s head because the latter persisted in making a noise after I had told him to stop. I doubt if a man can experience so keenly in any other way that thrill which comes from the knowledge that the populace is his friend. Political orators must have the same sort of feeling when their audience clamours for the ejection of a heckler, but it cannot be so keen. One is so helpless with boys, unless they decide that they like one.
It was a week from the beginning of the term before I made the acquaintance of the Little Nugget.
I had kept my eyes open for him from the beginning, and when I discovered that he was not at school, I had felt alarmed. Had Cynthia sent me down here, to work as I had never worked before, on a wild-goose chase?
Then, one morning, Mr. Abney drew me aside after breakfast.
“Ah—Mr. Burns.”
It was the first time that I had heard those soon-to-be-familiar words.
“I fear I shall be compelled to run up to London today. I have an important appointment with the father of a boy who is coming to the school. He wishes—ah—to see me.”
This might be the
