Hugh hung back as they entered the inn’s lobby and asked a porter to bring him a pen and paper. He took a seat at a small table in a window nook and busied himself with turning over the pages of an old issue of the Racing Times. Trying to appear absorbed in tables of results from early spring’s races and advertisements for stud services and worm treatments, he kept a keen ear on Wheaton’s conversation.
“Just telling my friend Daniel here that this town is sorely lacking in congenial chaps on whom one can rely for a companionable talk.”
“I tell him he’s too fussy about where he gathers,” said Daniel, shaking Poot by the hand.
“I don’t like rubbing up against all and sundry,” said Wheaton. “I prefer a quiet room and a landlord who knows his regulars. Don’t you agree, Pooty, old boy?”
“It’s just Poot,” said Poot.
“Have you met Old Jones, the landlord here?” asked Wheaton, stuffing his driving gloves into his coat pocket and shouldering off the voluminous garment. A footman stepped smoothly up to take it from him. Wheaton was well known in half the public houses in town, and while most had had occasion to escort him off the premises for some wild act stemming from drunkenness, they never failed to welcome him with a hopeful deference.
“I have not had occasion—” began Poot. He looked ready to deny any desire to frequent public houses, but Wheaton interrupted.
“What luck,” he said. “Daniel and I were just stopping in now to ask Jones about hosting a small supper for a few chaps. Come with us and I’ll introduce you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, I’m waiting to see the school governors,” said Poot, but Hugh saw his eyes flicker towards the taproom.
“That could take hours, knowing my mother,” said Wheaton. He slapped Poot heartily on the back. “You come along with us and we’ll ask Old Jones to give us the nod when they need you upstairs.”
“When Harry Wheaton introduces you, you’re all set in this town,” said Daniel, steering him by the arm now. “It’s a good thing we came along.”
As they disappeared into the taproom, Hugh looked around for someone to take up his note. It took a few moments to find a man and to give him instructions and fish out a sixpence to thank him. When the note was safely on its way upstairs, Hugh shuffled slowly past the taproom door and glanced in to see Mr. Jones, the landlord, lead a toast to the King, and a nervous Mr. Poot, earlobes scarlet, drink down his glass in one swallow. His eyes closed as if in prayer, but his face did not twist or pucker as might be usual in someone unused to strong drink. Of the four men gathered around the bar, only Daniel gave a smothered cough as the dram went down. At some signal from Wheaton, the landlord refilled the glasses, filling Mr. Poot’s to the brim, and proclaimed a loud welcome to Master Wheaton’s new young friend. Hugh walked away satisfied, wondering only how he might explain to Aunt Agatha why Daniel would need to miss lunch and lie down all afternoon.
—
In the Green Banqueting Hall, Agatha Kent watched hopelessly as Beatrice Nash gave a good account of her qualifications, her extensive travels, and her experience to a table filled with men who mostly did not care. The Headmaster had the grace to look uncomfortable, making copious notes on a paper and fiddling with his collar. The Vicar looked earnestly pious, but his eyelids were drowsy and he was obviously smiling not at Miss Nash but at a mental picture of his lunch to come. Emily Wheaton was just now glaring at Mr. Satchell, the shipowner, who was whispering to Farmer Bowen. The farmer, who owned large acreage, from sheep pasture on the marsh to hop fields towards the Kent border, wore his best wool suit and polished boots, and as usual this time of year, he was at the meeting to make sure the school would remain closed for the full period of the hop harvest and otherwise to vote as the Mayor wished him to do. Mr. Satchell was very interested in the educational efforts of the school, looking as he was for a steady supply of young clerks for his maritime warehouses. He could usually be persuaded to support new efforts and ideas. But he was immune to the social inducements of Emily Wheaton, so his support for Beatrice was uncertain. Mr. Arnold Pike was Arty Pike’s uncle. He was a tightfisted man and suspicious of all change, as if it were somehow designed to strip him of his worldly position. Agatha thought this might be the result of a pricking conscience. He had benefited from the disinheritance of his older brother, Cedric, because their Chapel father had not approved of Cedric’s weakness for the occasional tipple. Now Cedric worked in the ironmongery on a store clerk’s salary and could not reliably afford his son’s school fees. Agatha and John’s little scholarships were supposed to be confidential, but sometimes she thought Arnold Pike glared at her with even more suspicion than usual.
“I believe Miss Nash is not only fully qualified to teach Latin but has even had some work of Latin translation published?” said Agatha, trying to encourage the room at large. She had received a note from Hugh asking her to extend the interview as long as possible, but the frowns around the table did not inspire confidence.
“Just a couple of short Herodotus poems published in a literary magazine in California,” said Beatrice. “And I also created a third poem in a similar style as a commentary on the original content and to display its connections to events of our own times,” she added.
“Whoever heard of making up new Latin on top of what already exists!” said Mr. Satchell, looking comically alarmed. “I had enough old Latin beaten into me without trying to expand the stuff.” He stuck an elbow in Farmer Bowen’s ribs, and they both chuckled.
“I am sure Miss Nash understands what an effort it is to get our young men to memorize the usual passages of translation,” said the Headmaster. “We did terribly in last year’s scholarship exams, and so we must be sure not to waste a moment trying anything too innovative this coming year.”
“Repetitio est mater studiorum,” said the Vicar, who could not resist speaking Latin in the deep tone that he used for projecting sermons to the farthest reaches of St. Mary’s Church.
“Hear, hear,” said Farmer Bowen, to cover the fact that he had no Latin whatsoever.
“I absolutely agree that repetition is the mother of all studies,” said Beatrice Nash in a firm tone. “But I do find that the more ways one can vary the necessary practice, the more one can commit to memory not just the text but the story and the meaning.”
“What we need is a master who’ll not spare the rod,” said Mr. Pike. “These boys must forget stories and games and bend their backs into hard work if they’re to acquire a respectable trade.”
“Well spoken, Mr. Pike,” said the Mayor.
“I’m sure Miss Nash is more than able to wield a cane to suitable effect,” said Lady Emily. “Do you play tennis, Miss Nash?”
“Tennis?” asked Beatrice. She looked bewildered, and Agatha sighed. She was used to the very different paths of logic by which her fellow board members pursued their thoughts, but she realized now that to an outsider the exchange must seem like a chapter from Alice in Wonderland.
“It’s all in the wrist,” said Lady Emily.
“I do all the serious caning myself,” said the Headmaster. “I find it adds to the gravity to have the offending child take the long walk to my office. They are usually quite cowed by the time they see me.”
“I understand that you would also like to increase proficiency in Euclidian geometry?” asked Beatrice. “I have pursued advanced studies in both geometry and the newest algebraic theories.” They looked at her as if she had offered to demonstrate fire-eating. It seemed to Agatha that Beatrice now gave up the fight. Her shoulders seemed to slump, and she folded her hands in her lap.
“We are delighted in all your proficiencies,” said Agatha. “I believe we can let Miss Nash escape now?” They agreed, and as Beatrice left the room, Agatha looked over at Emily Wheaton, who was rigid with fury but who gave a small shake of the head. Agatha feared they were defeated.
“Could we ask Mr. Poot to come in now?” said the Headmaster to the girl who was holding the door for Beatrice.