His one assistant, who figured in the prospectus as “Teacher of English, the Mathematics, and Navigation,” was a retired packet-captain, Branscome by name, but known among us as Captain Gamey, by reason of an injured leg.  He had taken the hurt—­a splintered hip-bone—­while fighting his ship against a French privateer off Guadeloupe, and it had retired him from the service of my lords the Postmaster-General upon a very small pension, and with a sword of honour subscribed for by the merchants of the City of London, whose mails he had gallantly saved.  These resources being barely sufficient to maintain him, still less to permit his helping a widowed sister whom he had partly maintained during his days of service, he eked them out by school mastering; and a dreadful trade he must have found it.  In person he was slight and wiry, of a clear, ruddy complexion, with grey hair, and a grave simplicity of manner.  He wore a tightly buttoned, blue uniform coat, threadbare and frayed, but scrupulously brushed, noticeably clean linen, and white duck trousers in all weathers.  He walked with the support of a malacca cane, dragging his wounded leg after him; and had a trick of talking to himself as he went.

I need scarcely say that we mimicked him; but in school he kept far better discipline than Stimcoe, for, with all his oddity, we knew him to be a brave man.  Such mathematics as we needed he taught capably enough and very patiently.  The “navigation,” so far as we were concerned, was a mere flourish of the prospectus; and his qualifications as a teacher of English began and ended with an enthusiasm for Dr. Johnson’s “Rasselas.”

Such was Captain Branscome:  and, such as he was, he kept the school running on days when Stimcoe was merely drunk and incapable.  He ever treated Mrs. Stimcoe with the finest courtesy, and, alone among her creditors, was rewarded with that lady’s respect.

I knew, to be sure—­we all knew—­that she must be in arrears with Captain Branscome’s pay; but we were unprepared for the morning when, on the stroke of the church clock—­our Greenwich time—­he walked up to the door, resolutely handed Mrs. Stimcoe a letter, and as resolutely walked away again.  Stimcoe had been maudlin drunk for a week and could not appear.  His wife heroically stepped into the breach, and gave us (as a geography lesson) some account of her uncle the admiral and his career—­“distinguished, but wandering,” as she summarized it.

I remember little of this lesson save that it dispensed—­wisely, no doubt—­with the use of the terrestrial globe; that it included a description of the admiral’s country seat in Roscommon, and an account of a ball given by him to celebrate Mrs. Stimcoe’s arrival at a marriageable age, with a list of the notabilities assembled; and that it ended in her rapping Doggy Bates over the head with a ruler, for biting his nails.  From that moment anarchy reigned.

It reigned for a week.  I have wondered since how our six day-boys managed to refrain from carrying home a tale which must have brought their parents down upon us en masse.  Great is schoolboy honour—­ great, and more than a trifle quaint.  In any case, the parents must have been singularly unobservant or singularly slow to reason upon what they observed; for we sent their backward sons home to them each night in a mask of ink.