Glengarry Schooldays [63]
man. A most unusual man."
"What about your sums, Hughie?" asked his mother.
"Don't know. He doesn't bother much with that sort of thing, and I'm just as glad."
"You ought really to speak to him about it," said Mrs. Murray, after Hughie had left the room.
"Well, my dear," said the minister, smiling, "you heard what Hughie said. It would be rather awkward for me to speak to him about smoking. I think, perhaps, you had better do it."
"I am afraid," said his wife, with a slight laugh, "it would be just as awkward for me. I wonder what those Friday afternoons of his mean," she continued.
"I am sure I don't know, but everywhere throughout the section I hear the children speak of them. We'll just drop in and see. I ought to visit the school, you know, very soon."
And so they did. The master was surprised, and for a moment appeared uncertain what to do. He offered to put the classes through their regular lessons, but at once there was a noisy outcry against this on the part of the school, which, however, was effectually and immediately quelled by the quiet suggestion on the master's part that anything but perfect order would be fatal to the programme. And upon the minister requesting that the usual exercises proceed, the master smilingly agreed.
"We make Friday afternoons," he said, "at once a kind of reward day for good work during the week, and an opportunity for the cultivation of some of the finer arts."
And certainly he was a master in this business. He had strong dramatic instincts, and a remarkable power to stimulate and draw forth the emotions.
When the programme of singing, recitations, and violin-playing was finished, there were insistent calls on every side for "Mark Antony." It appeared to be the 'piece de resistance' in the minds of the children.
"What does this mean?" inquired the minister, as the master stood smiling at his pupils.
"Oh, they are demanding a little high tragedy," he said, "which I sometimes give them. It assists in their reading lessons," he explained, apologetically, and with that he gave them what Hughie called, "that rigmarole beginning, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen,'" Mark Antony's immortal oration.
"Well," said the minister, as they drove away from the school, "what do you think of that, now?"
"Marvelous!" exclaimed his wife. "What dramatic power, what insight, what interpretation!"
"You may say so," exclaimed her husband. "What an actor he would make!"
"Yes," said his wife, "or what a minister he would make! I understand, now, his wonderful influence over Hughie, and I am afraid."
"O, he can't do Hughie any harm with things like that," replied her husband, emphatically.
"No, but Hughie now and then repeats some of his sayings about-- about religion and religious convictions, that I don't like. And then he is hanging about that Twentieth store altogether too much, and I fancied I noticed something strange about him last Friday evening when he came home so late."
"O, nonsense," said the minister. "His reputation has prejudiced you, and that is not fair, and your imagination does the rest."
"Well, it is a great pity that he should not do something with himself," replied his wife. "There are great possibilities in that young man."
"He does not take himself seriously enough," said her husband. "That is the chief trouble with him."
And this was apparently Jack Craven's opinion of himself, as is evident from his letter to his college friend, Ned Maitland.
"Dear Ned:--
"For the last two months I have been seeking to adjust myself to my surroundings, and find it no easy business. I have struck the land of the Anakim, for the inhabitants are all of 'tremenjous' size, and indeed, 'tremenjous' in all their ways, more particularly in their religion. Religion is all over the place. You are liable to come upon a boy anywhere perched on a fence corner with a New Testament in his hand, and on Sunday the 'tremenjousness' of their religion is overwhelming. Every other interest in life, as meat, drink, and dress, are
"What about your sums, Hughie?" asked his mother.
"Don't know. He doesn't bother much with that sort of thing, and I'm just as glad."
"You ought really to speak to him about it," said Mrs. Murray, after Hughie had left the room.
"Well, my dear," said the minister, smiling, "you heard what Hughie said. It would be rather awkward for me to speak to him about smoking. I think, perhaps, you had better do it."
"I am afraid," said his wife, with a slight laugh, "it would be just as awkward for me. I wonder what those Friday afternoons of his mean," she continued.
"I am sure I don't know, but everywhere throughout the section I hear the children speak of them. We'll just drop in and see. I ought to visit the school, you know, very soon."
And so they did. The master was surprised, and for a moment appeared uncertain what to do. He offered to put the classes through their regular lessons, but at once there was a noisy outcry against this on the part of the school, which, however, was effectually and immediately quelled by the quiet suggestion on the master's part that anything but perfect order would be fatal to the programme. And upon the minister requesting that the usual exercises proceed, the master smilingly agreed.
"We make Friday afternoons," he said, "at once a kind of reward day for good work during the week, and an opportunity for the cultivation of some of the finer arts."
And certainly he was a master in this business. He had strong dramatic instincts, and a remarkable power to stimulate and draw forth the emotions.
When the programme of singing, recitations, and violin-playing was finished, there were insistent calls on every side for "Mark Antony." It appeared to be the 'piece de resistance' in the minds of the children.
"What does this mean?" inquired the minister, as the master stood smiling at his pupils.
"Oh, they are demanding a little high tragedy," he said, "which I sometimes give them. It assists in their reading lessons," he explained, apologetically, and with that he gave them what Hughie called, "that rigmarole beginning, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen,'" Mark Antony's immortal oration.
"Well," said the minister, as they drove away from the school, "what do you think of that, now?"
"Marvelous!" exclaimed his wife. "What dramatic power, what insight, what interpretation!"
"You may say so," exclaimed her husband. "What an actor he would make!"
"Yes," said his wife, "or what a minister he would make! I understand, now, his wonderful influence over Hughie, and I am afraid."
"O, he can't do Hughie any harm with things like that," replied her husband, emphatically.
"No, but Hughie now and then repeats some of his sayings about-- about religion and religious convictions, that I don't like. And then he is hanging about that Twentieth store altogether too much, and I fancied I noticed something strange about him last Friday evening when he came home so late."
"O, nonsense," said the minister. "His reputation has prejudiced you, and that is not fair, and your imagination does the rest."
"Well, it is a great pity that he should not do something with himself," replied his wife. "There are great possibilities in that young man."
"He does not take himself seriously enough," said her husband. "That is the chief trouble with him."
And this was apparently Jack Craven's opinion of himself, as is evident from his letter to his college friend, Ned Maitland.
"Dear Ned:--
"For the last two months I have been seeking to adjust myself to my surroundings, and find it no easy business. I have struck the land of the Anakim, for the inhabitants are all of 'tremenjous' size, and indeed, 'tremenjous' in all their ways, more particularly in their religion. Religion is all over the place. You are liable to come upon a boy anywhere perched on a fence corner with a New Testament in his hand, and on Sunday the 'tremenjousness' of their religion is overwhelming. Every other interest in life, as meat, drink, and dress, are