that puzzled him. The book was a mute, soulless thing that had no
relation to his inner world of thought and feeling. He turned ever
from the dead seven-times-six to the mystery of life about him.

He was never a special favourite with his teachers; that was scarcely
to be expected. In his very early years, his pockets were gone
through with every morning when he entered the school door, and the
contents, when confiscated, would comprise a jew's-harp, a bit of
catgut, screws whittled out of wood, tacks, spools, pins, and the
like. But when robbed of all these he could generally secrete a
fragment of india-rubber drawn from an old pair of suspenders, and
this, when put between his teeth and stretched to its utmost
capacity, would yield a delightful twang when played upon with the
forefinger. He could also fashion an interesting musical instrument
in his desk by means of spools and catgut and bits of broken glass.
The chief joy of his life was an old tuning-fork that the teacher of
the singing-school had given him, but, owing to the degrading and
arbitrary censorship of pockets that prevailed, he never dared bring
it into the schoolroom. There were ways, however, of evading
inexorable law and circumventing base injustice. He hid the precious
thing under a thistle just outside the window. The teacher had
sometimes a brief season of apathy on hot afternoons, when she was
hearing the primer class read, "I SEE A PIG. THE PIG IS BIG. THE
BIG PIG CAN DIG"; which stirring phrases were always punctuated by
the snores of the Hanks baby, who kept sinking down on his fat little
legs in the line and giving way to slumber during the lesson. At
such a moment Anthony slipped out of the window and snapped the
tuning-fork several times--just enough to save his soul from death--
and then slipped in again. He was caught occasionally, but not
often; and even when he was, there were mitigating circumstances, for