hall. One of the faculty sat on the platform and, lifting his eyes periodically from his own work, sent his gaze roving over the big room. Then, perhaps, you'd hear exchanges like these:
"Asleep, Jones, or thinking?"
There would be a sudden start on the part of Jones, an agitated clutching of book or paper, and "Thinking, sir!" Jones would answer.
"Hm. Try doing it without closing the eyes, Jones."
Or: "I'm sorry, Robinson, that I am too far from you to listen to that conversation with Brown. It must be quite interesting."
"I was just borrowing an eraser, sir."
"You have it now?"
The eraser would be exhibited as evidence.
"Very well. Hereafter try to provide yourself with such—er—items before coming here. If it takes you so long to negotiate the loan of an eraser, Robinson, I shudder to think what would happen if you found you had forgotten, say, your fountain pen. The hour would be all too short, I fear!"
The bright overhead lights, the fluttering of leaves, the scratching of pens, the shuffling of feet, the presence of so many others around him all combined to deprive Clif of whatever power of concentration he possessed. That first study hour was a total loss so far as he was concerned.
But he got used to it after a time or two, just as he got used to other features of life at Wyndham School,
