“I’ve read all the others.
There’s a new book out.”
“Oh, but really!
My dear boy!” said Mr. Torrington with gentle amazement.
He shrugged his shoulders and became politely indifferent.
Very well, if he liked.
Of course, he thought it rather a pity to waste one’s time so when they were really doing some first-rate things.
That was JUST the trouble, however.
The appeal of a man like that was mainly to the unformed taste, the uncritical judgment.
He had a flashy attraction for the immature.
Oh, yes!
Undoubtedly an amusing fellow.
Clever — yes, but hardly significant.
And — didn’t he think — a trifle noisy?
Or had he noticed that?
Yes — there was to be sure an amusing Celtic strain, not without charm, but unsound.
He was not in line with the best modern thought.
“I’ll take the Barrie,” said Eugene.
Yes, he rather thought that would be better.
“Well, good day. Mr. — Mr. —? —?” he smiled, fumbling again with his cards.
“Gant.”
Oh yes, to be sure — Gant.
He held out his plump limp hand.
He did hope Mr. Gant would call on him.
Perhaps he’d be able to advise him on some of the little problems that, he knew, were constantly cropping up during the first year.
Above all, he mustn’t get discouraged.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene, backing feverishly to the door.
When he felt the open space behind him, he fell through it, and vanished.
Anyway, he thought grimly, I’ve read all the damned Barries.
I’ll write the damned report for him, and damned well read what I damn well please.
God save our King and Queen!
He had courses besides in Chemistry, Mathematics, Greek, and Latin.
He worked hard and with interest at his Latin.
His instructor was a tall shaven man, with a yellow saturnine face.
He parted his scant hair cleverly in such a way as to suggest horns.
His lips were always twisted in a satanic smile, his eyes gleamed sideward with heavy malicious humor.
Eugene had great hopes of him.
When the boy arrived, panting and breakfastless, a moment after the class had settled to order, the satanic professor would greet him with elaborate irony:
“Ah there, Brother Gant!
Just in time for church again.
Have you slept well?”
The class roared its appreciation of these subtleties.
And later, in an expectant pause, he would deepen his arched brows portentously, stare up mockingly under his bushy eyebrows at his expectant audience, and say, in a deep sardonic voice:
“And now, I am going to request Brother Gant to favor us with one of his polished and scholarly translations.”
These heavy jibes were hard to bear because, of all the class, two dozen or more, Brother Gant was the only one to prepare his work without the aid of a printed translation.
He worked hard on Livy and Tacitus, going over the lesson several times until he had dug out a smooth and competent reading of his own.
This he was stupid enough to deliver in downright fashion, without hesitation, or a skilfully affected doubt here and there.
For his pains and honesty he was handsomely rewarded by the Amateur Diabolist.
The lean smile would deepen as the boy read, the man would lift his eyes significantly to the grinning class, and when it was over, he would say:
“Bravo, Brother Gant!