“I am not going to look out any more words,” says he; “we’ve done the quantity.  Ten to one we shan’t get so far.  Let’s go out into the close.”

“Come along, boys,” cries East, always ready to leave “the grind,” as he called it; “our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of the new masters, who’s sure to go slow and let us down easy.”

So an adjournment to the close was carried nem. con., little Arthur not daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what they were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learnt on for his own pleasure.

As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they were to be heard by one of the new masters—­quite a young man, who had only just left the university.  Certainly it would be hard lines if, by dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places, entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so that he should not work them through more than the forty lines.  As to which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master and his form—­the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance, that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson; the former, that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the hour.  However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on horribly quick.  He seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like appreciation of it, giving them good, spirited English words, instead of the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and construing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them how it should be done.

Now the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an hour more, but the forty lines are all but done.  So the boys, one after another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and ever more bald work of it.  The poor young master is pretty near beat by this time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his fingers against somebody else’s head.  So he gives up altogether the lower and middle parts of the form, and looks round in despair at the boys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world.  His eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen’s speech.  Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to stare about and take it easy.  They are all safe:  Arthur is the head of the form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely till the hour strikes.