“If my memory serves me, I said he had a small stye in his eye, and I was willing to certify that for what it was worth, if you didn’t mind paying me half-a-crown.”

“If edication’s free, as they call it, I don’t see why a body should pay half-a-crown to get off what can be had for nothing.  That’s how I reasoned then, and always shall.  In consikence o’ which that la-di-da of an Attendance Officer, that thinks all the maids be after him an’ looks sideways into every shop window he passes for a sight of his own image—­and if it rids us of a fella like that, I’m all for Conscription—­got me summonsed before the Tregarrick bench an’ fined another half-crown, with five shillin’ costs.  An’ now, when the mischief’s done an’ the tender dear one rash from head to foot”—­ Mrs Jago mopped her eyes with the edge of her apron—­“what better can ’ee say than thank God the schools be closed!  For my part, I wish He’d close an’ roll the great stone o’ Daniel agenst ’em for ever and ever!”

Doctor Mant sought up the valley to the Schoolmaster, Mr Rounsell, whose quarters formed a part of the school buildings, and ended the block on its southern or seaward side.  One roof, indeed, covered him in and out of school:  and the Vicar, as one of the Managers, had been heard to lament this convenient provision.  “It never allows the fellow to forget his chain:  he talks to me as if I were a class of forty.”

Mr Rounsell himself answered the door.  He had been gardening, and was in his shirt-sleeves.  At sight of his visitor he became exceedingly prim and scholastic, with a touch of defiance.  He was short in stature, and, aware of this, often paused in the middle of a sentence to raise himself on his toes.  He made a special study of what he called “Voice-Production,” and regulated his most ordinary conversation by the laws (as he understood them) of that agreeable science.

“Doctor Mant?”

“Ah, it’s yourself, is it?” chimed Dr Mant, whom the Schoolmaster’s accent always sent back, and instantly, to a native brogue.  “Well, and it’s a fine row of sweet peas you have, Mr Rounsell, at the edge of the garden by the stream.  I note them every time I drive by:  and how in the world you contrive it, year after year, in the same soil—­”

“You take me at some disadvantage, sir,” said Mr Rounsell stiffly.  “My daughter being from home on a holiday, and few people coming to this door at any time, unless it be to ask a small favour.”

“Well, and you’ve hit it:  for myself’s one of that same,” Dr Mant assured him cheerily.  “But business first!  Jago’s child has the measles.  Had you any reason to suspect measles, or anything of the sort, in your school before you closed it a week ago?”

Mr Rounsell, who had seemed to be arming himself against a very different approach, sensibly relaxed his guard.  He was punctilious by habit in all official responsibilities.  He considered for a moment before answering.