The length of Uncle George's visit this year was beginning to reach
the limits of William's patience. He was beginning to feel that sooner
or later something must happen. For five weeks now he had
(reluctantly) accompanied Uncle George upon his morning walk, he had
(generally unsuccessfully) tried to maintain that state of absolute
quiet that Uncle George's afternoon rest required, he had in the
evening listened wearily to Uncle George's stories of his youth. His
usual feeling of mild contempt for Uncle George was beginning to give
way to one which was much stronger.

"Now, William," said Uncle George at breakfast, "I'm afraid it's going
to rain to-day, so we'll do a little work together this morning, shall
we? Nothing like work, is there? Your Arithmetic's a bit shaky, isn't
it? We'll rub that up. We _love_ our work, don't we?"

William eyed him coldly.

"I don't think I'd better get muddlin' up my school work," he said. "I
shouldn't like to be more on than the other boys next term. It
wouldn't be fair to them."

Uncle George rubbed his hands.

"That feeling does you credit, my boy," he said, "but if we go over
some of the old work, no harm can be done. History, now. There's
nothing like History, is there?"

William agreed quite heartily that there wasn't.