refectory, William Henry had worked out who got the cane. The talkers, the nose pickers, the fidgeters, the snufflers, the dullards, the cheeky, and a small number of boys who could not seem to help getting up to mischief.
He did not care much for either of his closest companions in both classroom and refectory, but did like the look of the boy who sat next-but-one from him; cheerful, yet not quite perky enough to have gotten the cane. William Henry glanced at him and essayed a smile which caused one of the masters at the Head’s table to draw in a breath and stiffen.
The moment he received the smile, the boy somehow ejected the obstacle between them, who fell on the floor with a clatter and was hauled away by one ear to the Head’s table on a dais at the front of the enormous, echoing room.
“Monkton Minor,” said the newcomer, grinning to reveal a missing tooth. “Been here since February.”
“Morgan Tertius, started today,” whispered William Henry.
“It is allowed to talk quietly once Grace has been said. You must have a rich father, Morgan Tertius.”
William Henry eyed Monkton Minor’s blue coat and looked wistful. “I do not think so, Monkton Minor. Not terribly rich, anyway. He went here, and he wore the blue coat.”
“Oh.” Monkton Minor thought about that, then nodded. “Is your father still alive?”
“Yes. Is yours?”
“No. Nor is my mother. I am an orphan.” Monkton Minor leaned his head closer, his bright blue eyes sparkling. “What is your Christian name, Morgan Tertius?”
“I have two. William Henry. What is yours?”
“Johnny.” The look became conspiratorial. “I will call you William Henry and you will call me Johnny—but only if no one can hear us.”
“Is it a sin?” asked William Henry, who still catalogued wrongs in that light.
“No, just not good form. But I
hate
being a Minor!”
“And I a Tertius.” William Henry removed his gaze from his new friend and glanced guiltily toward the Head’s table on high, where the ejected benchmate was receiving what William Henry had already learned was a jawing—far worse than a few licks of the cane because it took so much longer and one had to stand absolutely still until it was over or else teeter on a stool for the rest of the day. Encountering the stare of a master beside Mr. Simpson, he blinked and looked away immediately, quite why he did not know. “Who is that, Johnny?”
“Next to the Head? Old Doom and Froom.” Mr. Prichard.
“No, one down. Next to the Simp.”
“Mr. Parfrey. He teaches Latin.”
“Does he have a nickname too?”
Monkton Minor managed to touch the tip of his snub nose with his pursed lips. “If he does, us juniors don’t know it. Latin is for the seniors.”
While the two boys discussed them, Mr. Parfrey and Mr. Simpson were busy discussing William Henry.
“I see, Ned, that ye have a Ganymede amongst your swine.”
Mr. Edward Simpson understood this without further elucidation. “Morgan Tertius? You should see his eyes!”
“I must make sure I do. But even viewed from afar, Ned, he is ravishing. Truly a Ganymede—ah, to be a Zeus!”
“As well then, George, that by the time he starts amo-ing and amas-ing, he will be two years older and probably as snotty as all the rest,” said Mr. Simpson, picking diffidently at his food, though a great deal more palatable than that served to the boys; disease ran in his family, notoriously short-lived.
Their casual exchange was not evidence of prurient intentions; it was merely a symptom of their unenviable lot. George Parfrey had longed to be a Zeus, but he might as easily and as fruitlessly have longed to be a Robert Nugent, now Earl Nugent. Schoolmasters were inevitably genteely impoverished. For Mr. Simpson and Mr. Parfrey, Colston’s represented a kind of zenith; they were paid £1 per week—but only when school was up—and had their board and lodging all year round as part of the job. As Colston’s ran to very good food
He did not care much for either of his closest companions in both classroom and refectory, but did like the look of the boy who sat next-but-one from him; cheerful, yet not quite perky enough to have gotten the cane. William Henry glanced at him and essayed a smile which caused one of the masters at the Head’s table to draw in a breath and stiffen.
The moment he received the smile, the boy somehow ejected the obstacle between them, who fell on the floor with a clatter and was hauled away by one ear to the Head’s table on a dais at the front of the enormous, echoing room.
“Monkton Minor,” said the newcomer, grinning to reveal a missing tooth. “Been here since February.”
“Morgan Tertius, started today,” whispered William Henry.
“It is allowed to talk quietly once Grace has been said. You must have a rich father, Morgan Tertius.”
William Henry eyed Monkton Minor’s blue coat and looked wistful. “I do not think so, Monkton Minor. Not terribly rich, anyway. He went here, and he wore the blue coat.”
“Oh.” Monkton Minor thought about that, then nodded. “Is your father still alive?”
“Yes. Is yours?”
“No. Nor is my mother. I am an orphan.” Monkton Minor leaned his head closer, his bright blue eyes sparkling. “What is your Christian name, Morgan Tertius?”
“I have two. William Henry. What is yours?”
“Johnny.” The look became conspiratorial. “I will call you William Henry and you will call me Johnny—but only if no one can hear us.”
“Is it a sin?” asked William Henry, who still catalogued wrongs in that light.
“No, just not good form. But I
hate
being a Minor!”
“And I a Tertius.” William Henry removed his gaze from his new friend and glanced guiltily toward the Head’s table on high, where the ejected benchmate was receiving what William Henry had already learned was a jawing—far worse than a few licks of the cane because it took so much longer and one had to stand absolutely still until it was over or else teeter on a stool for the rest of the day. Encountering the stare of a master beside Mr. Simpson, he blinked and looked away immediately, quite why he did not know. “Who is that, Johnny?”
“Next to the Head? Old Doom and Froom.” Mr. Prichard.
“No, one down. Next to the Simp.”
“Mr. Parfrey. He teaches Latin.”
“Does he have a nickname too?”
Monkton Minor managed to touch the tip of his snub nose with his pursed lips. “If he does, us juniors don’t know it. Latin is for the seniors.”
While the two boys discussed them, Mr. Parfrey and Mr. Simpson were busy discussing William Henry.
“I see, Ned, that ye have a Ganymede amongst your swine.”
Mr. Edward Simpson understood this without further elucidation. “Morgan Tertius? You should see his eyes!”
“I must make sure I do. But even viewed from afar, Ned, he is ravishing. Truly a Ganymede—ah, to be a Zeus!”
“As well then, George, that by the time he starts amo-ing and amas-ing, he will be two years older and probably as snotty as all the rest,” said Mr. Simpson, picking diffidently at his food, though a great deal more palatable than that served to the boys; disease ran in his family, notoriously short-lived.
Their casual exchange was not evidence of prurient intentions; it was merely a symptom of their unenviable lot. George Parfrey had longed to be a Zeus, but he might as easily and as fruitlessly have longed to be a Robert Nugent, now Earl Nugent. Schoolmasters were inevitably genteely impoverished. For Mr. Simpson and Mr. Parfrey, Colston’s represented a kind of zenith; they were paid £1 per week—but only when school was up—and had their board and lodging all year round as part of the job. As Colston’s ran to very good food
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