The Grammar School of St. Renny was an old-fashioned affair even for those days, but it had a certain name in a quiet way.  It was run on classical lines, Greek and Latin being considered the only two subjects worth a gentleman’s attention.  Botany and entomology were the unofficial subjects that had won the school its name, but Ishmael soon found that to show any keenness for these two pursuits was to class yourself a prig.  The robuster natures preferred rod and line, or line only, in the waters of Bolowen Pool to any dalliance with stink-pots and specimen cases.  Like far greater schools, it was really run by the traditions evolved by the boys.  There were certain things that were the thing and certain other things that were not the thing, and these varied occasionally.  One term you simply had to wear a dark blue-and-white tie for going into the town and bear’s grease your hair; another term a certain slovenliness in dress was the thing.  You dismissed all womenkind as trivial and useless, but you were in love with the doctor’s daughter, a stately, full-blown damsel who floated, so to speak, up the church upon the swaying bubble of her crinoline every Sunday morning, and sat, sunk to the waist in the swelling waves of silk, worshipped by a row of eyes from the school pew.

During the Sunday promenade around the churchyard—­an unchanging ritual—­you manoeuvred to be the one of the couple passing her as she came up the short path that bisected the circular one where you were marching.  The two boys who were leading had the advantage of being able to set the pace more or less, but often they miscalculated the time of her appearance, and then some other couple, by a judicious lagging for a moment or a sudden quickening, achieved the meeting that after all was no more than a furtive interchange of glances, supercilious or almost-smiling on her part, according to her mood and the boy that encountered it.  None of the boys ever met the damsel in any other way, except sometimes at a select party; but this adoration was a cult, though a purely academic one, so to speak.  The true goddess of the school was far otherwise, as Ishmael was to find.

Another feature of life at St. Renny was the weekly market-day.  It was forbidden to go into the town, it being placed out of bounds for the occasion, and therefore to slip out and drink cider at the corner shop and come back with your pockets stuffed with buns and solid country sweets of gaudy hues was a deed that placed you high in the respect of your fellows.  Ishmael achieved this once as a matter of form, and then, having no real interest in it, turned his attention to other matters.  On ordinary days the boys had a very real freedom, only limited by the hour at which they must return, and Ishmael and Killigrew nearly always took their rods and spent the half-holidays at Bolowen Pool, rarely catching anything, for the trout were abnormally shy; but Ishmael at least had the true fisherman’s temperament, and was content to sit all day at one end of a rod and line even without a fish at the other.  As for Killigrew, he was soon following where Ishmael led, and would have gone bug-hunting with him had he so decreed, though he felt relieved that Ishmael had cast such things aside.