little school-mastering is brisk enough to be a wonderful tonic.

I needed it, and I got it.

It was almost as if Mr Abney had realized intuitively how excellent
the discipline of work was for my soul, for the kindly man allowed
me to do not only my own, but most of his as well. I have talked
with assistant-masters since, and I have gathered from them that
headmasters of private schools are divided into two classes: the
workers and the runners-up-to-London. Mr Abney belonged to the
latter class. Indeed, I doubt if a finer representative of the
class could have been found in the length and breadth of southern
England. London drew him like a magnet.

After breakfast he would take me aside. The formula was always the
same.

'Ah--Mr Burns.'

Myself (apprehensively, scenting disaster, 'like some wild
creature caught within a trap, who sees the trapper coming through
the wood'). 'Yes? Er--yes?'

'I am afraid I shall be obliged to run up to London today. I have
received an important letter from--' And then he would name some
parent or some prospective parent. (By 'prospective' I mean one
who was thinking of sending his son to Sanstead House. You may
have twenty children, but unless you send them to his school, a
schoolmaster will refuse to dignify you with the name of parent.)