CHAPTER III

AMY AIRS HIS VIEWS

Clint settled down into his appointed niche at Brimfield, one of one
hundred and seventy-two individuals of various ages between twelve and
twenty. At Brimfield there were six forms, and Clint had, after a brief
examination, been assigned to the fourth. He found that he was well up
with the class in everything save Greek and Latin, and these, Greek
especially, soon proved hard sledding. The instructor, Mr. Simkins--or
"Uncle Sim," as he was called--was no easy taskmaster. He entertained a
profound reverence for Aristotle and Vergil and Cicero and Homer and all
the others, and failed to understand why his classes thought them
tiresome and, sometimes, dry. His very enthusiasm, however, made him
easy to impose on, and many a fellow received good marks merely because
he simulated a fervid interest. But Clint was either too honest or
possessed too little histrionic talent to attempt that plan, and by the
time the Fall term was a week old, he, together with many another, was
just barely keeping his head above water. He confessed discouragement
to his room-mate one evening. Amy was sympathetic but scarcely helpful.

"It's tommyrot, that's what it is," Amy said with conviction. "What good
does it do you to know Greek, anyway? I'll bet you anything that Uncle
Sim himself couldn't go to Athens tomorrow and order a cup of coffee and
a hard-boiled egg! Or, if he did order them, he'd get a morning
newspaper and toothpick. Last Spring I was in the boot-blacking emporium
in the village one afternoon and Horace came in to get his shoes