and the 'Istory an' the
Composition, an', an'--wot else, Samuel? You see, these 'ere schools
ain't a bit like the schools at 'ome, sir. They're so confusing with
their subjecks. Wot I say is, why not stick to real (h)eddication,
without the fiddle faddles?"

"So you want an easy job for your son, eh?" enquired Mr. Maitland.

"Boy," he said sharply to Samuel, whose eyes had again become fixed upon
the gay and daring lumber-jack. Samuel recalled himself with visible
effort. "Why did you leave school? The truth, mind." The "borin'" eyes
were at their work.

"Fired!" said Sam promptly.

Mr. Wigglesworth began a sputtering explanation.

"That will do, Wigglesworth," said Mr. Maitland, holding up his hand.
"Sam, you come and see me tomorrow here at eight. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded. After they had departed there came through the closed
office door the sound of Mr. Wigglesworth's voice lifted in violent
declamation, but from Sam no answering sound could be heard.

The school suffered no noticeable loss in the intellectual quality of
its activities by the removal of the whirling brain and incidentally
its physical integument of Samuel Wigglesworth. To the smaller boys the
absence of Sam brought unbounded joy, more especially during the
hours of recess from study and on their homeward way from school after
dismissal.

More than any other, little Steve Wickes rejoiced in Sam's departure
from school. Owing to some mysterious arrangement of Sam's brain cells
he seemed to possess an abnormal interest in observing the sufferings
of any animal. The squirming of an unfortunate fly upon a pin fascinated
him, the sight of a wretched dog driven mad with terror rushing
frantically down a street, with a tin can dangling to its tail,
convulsed him with shrieking delight. The more highly organised the
suffering animal, the keener was Sam's joy. A child, for instance,
flying in a paroxysm of fear from Sam's hideously contorted face
furnished acute satisfaction. It fell naturally enough that little
Steve Wickes, the timid, shrinking, humpbacked son of the dead soldier,
Stephen Wickes, afforded Sam many opportunities of rare pleasure. It
was Sam that coined and, with the aid of his sycophantic following
never wanting to a bully, fastened to the child the nickname of "Humpy
Wicksy," working thereby writhing agony in the lad's highly sensitive
soul. But Sam did not stay his hand at the infliction of merely mental
anguish. It was on