the boldness of desperation. 'She hits the keys like an old stick!"
The master had got up from his seat. "I'll speak to Miss Mason," he said, "and find out what she has to say about it. Meanwhile you must learn once and for all that schools are not run in accordance with the whims of scholars who think they know more than their teachers. And it isn't exactly respectful to apply such a term as 'old stick' to one's music-mistress. You'll report as usual for your music lesson until your grade has been finally settled. Now go and report yourself to the physical instructor."
Indeed, he would do no such thing. Gym was all right in a way. The swimming tank was a delight, and basket-ball was good fun when not taken too seriously. Drill, however, with its concerted lunging and bending and marching to the tune of "Won't you come home, Bill Bailey" on a jangling piano, was grotesque, and they might as well know—"once and for all" as the head master said—that he just couldn't be bothered with it.
The tragedy of the music-room had blurred his sense of duty. There was a good measure of liberty in the school, but for a boy whose comings and goings had always been adjustable to his mood the schedules were an insufferable nuisance. As he walked through the campus his eyes lifted toward the distant hill crowned by the citadel. From that eminence there must be a splendid view of the city and the harbour. With a sense of guilt and a still stronger sense of elation he slipped through the gate and ran down the road.
"But your method is quite wrong!" That sentence kept ringing in his ears. A fat lot she knew about methods! "The Merry Peasant!" Why, even Gritty Kestrell could play that! She could have her old diploma! "You're here to study what your guardian has arranged for you to study!" And what did old boy Wilcove know
