Had he not been obliged to spend his working life in the position of
one who has just been made to look a fool, he would have been an
attractive and lovable person. He had the most beautiful tenor
voice, which, when he spoke was like liquid silver, and, when he
sang elaborate opera passages, made one see glorious wrought-steel
gateways of heavenly palaces. This inefficient master owed his
position to the great vogue enjoyed by his books: "Reinhardt's
German Conversation," "Reinhardt's French Pieces," and others. But
the boys, by common consent, decided not to identify this "Cæsar
Reinhardt, Modern Language Master at Kensingtowe School" with their
own dear Mr. Cæsar. Thus, you see, in their ignorance, they were
able to bring up the Reinhardt works to Mr. Cæsar, and say with
worried brows: "Here, sir. This bally book's all wrong"; "I could
write a better book than this myself, sir"; "The Johnny who wrote
this book, sir--well, _st. st._" Pennybet, however, used to tremble
on the brink of identification, when he made the idiotic mistake of
saying: "Shall I bring up my Cæsar, sir,--I mean, my Reinhardt?"

The jubilation of our class, as we lolled or clog-danced in the
corridor, had need to be organised into some systematic fooling; and
for once in a way, the boys accepted a suggestion of mine.

"Let's all hum 'God Save the King' exactly at twelve o'clock. Mr.
Cæsar won't hear; he's too deaf."

Immediately several boys started to sing the popular air in
question, and others went for a slide along the corridor, both of
which performances are generally construed as meaning: "Right-ho!"

"It's crude," commented Penny, "but I'll not interfere. I might