Chapter 17 - Page 2

platform in
the main room of the building where I sat, there was an alertness in
his figure, and a look of responsibility in his face, that reminded
me of the pictures of Napoleon at Waterloo. He always carried a
stout ruler that had blistered a shank of every mischievous boy in
school. As he stood by the line, that came marching into prayers
every morning he would frequently pull out a boy, administer a
loud whack or two, shake him violently and force him into a seat.
The day I began my studies at the Academy I saw him put two
dents in the wall with the heels of a young man who had failed in
his algebra. To a bashful and sensitive youth, just out of a country
home, the sight of such violence was appalling. My first talk with
him, however, renewed my courage. He had heard I was a good
scholar and talked with me in a friendly way about my plans. Both
Hope and I were under him in algebra and Latin. I well remember
my first error in his class. I had misconstrued a Latin sentence. He
looked at me, a smile and a sneer crowding each other for
possession of his face. In a loud, jeering tone he cried: 'Mirabile
dictu!'

I looked at him in doubt of his meaning.

'Mirabile dictu!' he shouted, his tongue trilling the r.

I corrected my error.

'Perfect!' he cried again. 'Puer pulchre! Next!'

He never went further than that with me in the way of correction.
My size and my skill as a wrestler, that shortly ensured for me the
respect of the boys, helped me to win the esteem of the master. I
learned my lessons and kept out of mischief. But others of equal
proficiency were not so fortunate. He was apt to be hard on a light
man who could be handled without over-exertion.

Uncle Eb came in to see me one day and sat awhile with me in my
seat. While he was there the master took a boy by the collar and
almost literally wiped the blackboard with him. There was a great
clatter of heels for a moment. Uncle Eb went away shortly and was
at Sol Rollin's when I came to dinner.

'Powerful man ain't he?' said Uncle Eb.

'Rather,' I said.

'Turned that boy into a reg'lar horse fiddle,' he remarked. 'Must 'ave
unsot his reason.'

'Unnecessary!' I said.

'Reminded me o' the time 'at Tip Taylor got his tooth pulled,' said
he. 'Shook 'im up so 'at he thought he'd had his neck put out o' ji'nt.'

Sol Rollin was one of my studies that winter. He was a carpenter
by trade and his oddities were new and delightful. He whistled as
he worked, he whistled as he read, he whistled right merrily as he
walked up and down the streets - a short, slight figure with a round
boyish face and a fringe of iron-grey hair under his chin. The little
man had one big passion - that for