"We'll do some History, then," said Uncle George briskly. "The lives
of the great. Most inspiring. Better than those terrible things you
used to waste your time on, eh?"

The "terrible things" had included a trumpet, a beloved motor hooter,
and an ingenious instrument very dear to William's soul that
reproduced most realistically the sound of two cats fighting. These,
at Uncle George's request, had been confiscated by William's father.
Uncle George had not considered them educational. They also disturbed
his afternoon's rest.

Uncle George settled himself and William down for a nice quiet morning
in the library. William, looking round for escape, found none. The
outside world was wholly uninviting. The rain came down in torrents.
Moreover, the five preceding weeks had broken William's spirits. He
realised the impossibility of evading Uncle George. His own family
were not sympathetic. They suffered from him considerably during the
rest of the year and were not sorry to see him absorbed completely by
Uncle George's conscientious zeal.

So Uncle George seated himself slowly and ponderously in an arm-chair
by the fire.

"When I was a boy, William," he began, leaning back and joining the
tips of his fingers together, "I loved my studies. I'm sure you love
your studies, don't you? Which do you love most?"

"Me?" said William. "I like shootin' and playin' Red Injuns."

"Yes, yes," said Uncle George impatiently, "but those aren't