objection.

Only on one occasion do I remember his losing it. As a rule, tiresome
questions, concerning past participles, square roots, or meridians
never reached him, being snapped up in transit by arm-waving lovers of
such trifles. The few that by chance trickled so far he took no
notice of. They possessed no interest for him, and he never pretended
that they did. But one day, taken off his guard, he gave voice quite
unconsciously to a correct reply, with the immediate result of finding
himself in an exposed position on the front bench. I had never seen
Dan out of temper before, but that moment had any of us ventured upon
a whispered congratulation we would have had our head punched, I feel
confident.

Old Waterhouse thought that here at last was reformation. "Come,
Brian," he cried, rubbing his long thin hands together with delight,
"after all, you're not such a fool as you pretend."

"Never said I was," muttered Dan to himself, with a backward glance of
regret towards his lost seclusion; and before the day was out he had
worked his way back to it again.

As we were going out together, old Waterhouse passed us on the stairs:
"Haven't you any sense of shame, my boy?" he asked sorrowfully, laying
his hand kindly on Dan's shoulder.

"Yes, sir," answered Dan, with his frank smile; "plenty. It isn't
yours, that's all."

He was an excellent fighter. In the whole school of over two hundred