“A friend of mine sent me some pictures of Athens this morning,” he said casually.  “Look here, there’s the Akropolis.”

He began explaining to Philip what he saw.  The ruin grew vivid with his words.  He showed him the theatre of Dionysus and explained in what order the people sat, and how beyond they could see the blue Aegean.  And then suddenly he said: 

“I remember Mr. Gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper when I was in his form.”

And before Philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time to gather the meaning of the remark, Mr. Perkins was showing him a picture of Salamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the nail had a little black edge to it, was pointing out how the Greek ships were placed and how the Persian.

XVII

Philip passed the next two years with comfortable monotony.  He was not bullied more than other boys of his size; and his deformity, withdrawing him from games, acquired for him an insignificance for which he was grateful.  He was not popular, and he was very lonely.  He spent a couple of terms with Winks in the Upper Third.  Winks, with his weary manner and his drooping eyelids, looked infinitely bored.  He did his duty, but he did it with an abstracted mind.  He was kind, gentle, and foolish.  He had a great belief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first thing to make them truthful was not to let it enter your head for a moment that it was possible for them to lie.  “Ask much,” he quoted, “and much shall be given to you.”  Life was easy in the Upper Third.  You knew exactly what lines would come to your turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from hand to hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could hold a Latin Grammar open on your knees while questions were passing round; and Winks never noticed anything odd in the fact that the same incredible mistake was to be found in a dozen different exercises.  He had no great faith in examinations, for he noticed that boys never did so well in them as in form:  it was disappointing, but not significant.  In due course they were moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery in the distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to them in after life than an ability to read Latin at sight.

Then they fell into the hands of Tar.  His name was Turner; he was the most vivacious of the old masters, a short man with an immense belly, a black beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin.  In his clerical dress there was indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on principle he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard his nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little jokes about it.  He was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more frequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so exclusively clerical.  The boys looked upon him as rather a dog.  He left off his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in Switzerland in gay tweeds.  He liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, and having once been seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very probably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity.