The Secret of Discipline

by Barry Pain

THE SECRET OF DISCIPLINE.

By BARRY PAIN.

MR. ERNEST WILLIS was an excellent and conscientious young man. He was a Bachelor of Arts. But he had not invented gunpowder; he had his limitations.

Upon taking his degree, he decided to become a schoolmaster. This was less because he loved teaching than because he knew of nothing else which he could do. The modest honorarium which he would earn in this way, added to his still more modest private means, would allow him to live in moderate comfort, provided he abstained from marriage and other excesses. The chief charm of the scholastic profession for the young man of moderate attainments is that it gives one thirteen weeks' holiday in the year; if it had fifty-one weeks' holiday in the year, it would be almost attractive. To men of Ernest Willis's calibre the work is often arduous and unpleasant, the remuneration is miserable, and the prospect of being unemployed and not wanted at forty is fairly certain. But Ernest Willis had little knowledge or imagination.

Being conscientious, he began to read books on education. He devoted special study to the question of discipline. It soon became evident to him that there was plenty of good advice to be obtained. The authorities did not agree in the least, but every theory (so long as it was taken by itself) seemed quite sound.

Mr. Ernest Willis was exceptionally fortunate. In three months he had found a situation. The salary of £70 was small, but in addition he was well housed and well fed. It was probably more than he was worth. The proprietorial head-master, the Rev. James Millen, seemed to have some of the qualities of a gentleman, and was not agressively narrow in his views. He made a few mistakes, perhaps, but rarely in his manners and never in his accounts. The only other resident master, Whitcombe, a rather fat man of thirty, seemed a very decent fellow. The school prepared for the public schools and for certain examinations. It was quite a small school, and the pupils (as the agents had informed Ernest) were all the sons of gentlemen. They must, further, have been the sons of gentlemen who enjoyed paying too much for things.

Whitcombe and Willis dined together in Whitcombe's sitting-room on the first night of term, and smoked Willis's cigars afterwards.

"And," said Whitcombe, "you're lucky to be here. There was nothing princely about the dinner we've just eaten, and our rooms are not palaces. But we're fairly comfortable, and better treated than half the assistant masters in private schools. This place was my third attempt, so I know something about it. I've been here six years, and here I mean to stop. There are things which one doesn't like: I bar the two services on Sunday, and old Millen might give us a little more time off duty. But it's heaven to the other places I was at."

Willis questioned and heard horrid details of those other places—of prohibited smoking, of rooms unfit for habitation, of food that would have been rejected in the kitchen, of dirt and mean-souled avarice.

"Why did my predecessor leave here?"

"Poor old Pirley—he got sacked. He wasn't half a bad sort, but he couldn't get on with the boys. They played Old Harry with him. He hadn't the slightest control over them."

"I see," said Ernest. "I'm not any too sure about myself; I come here without any actual experience. I suppose you're a good disciplinarian."

"I don't know that I ever thought about it. I get on all right with the young devils."

"If you could give me some hints about discipline, I'd be very glad of the——"

But Whitcombe modestly declined. Probably, in three days' time, Willis would know as much about it as he did—or more.

Willis spoke of the different authorities on education whose works he had consulted, but Whitcombe knew nothing of any of them, and did not seem to respect them greatly. His knowledge of London theatres and restaurants was fairly comprehensive, and he found them a more interesting subject of discussion. "I always spend the holidays in town," said Whitcombe. "I consider that I am dead for thirty-nine weeks in the year, in order that I may live for the other thirteen." He did not seem discontented; he was fat and philosophical; but Ernest Willis decided that Whitcombe, pleasant man though he was, was sadly wanting in a serious interest in his educational work.

Boys, as a rule, treat the new master kindly for the first day or two; they regard him as being on probation, and wish to see what can be done with him. Therefore, on the first day Ernest Willis had an opportunity of studying the methods of Mr. Millen and of Mr. Whitcombe, in order to ascertain how discipline might be maintained. Mr. Millen was quiet and incisive in his manner, and was occasionally satirical. Discipline was perfect in his class, and Ernest decided that he had now got the secret. However, the next hour brought Whitcombe into the class-room. Whitcombe roared like a bull of Bashan, taught like a whirlwind, was frequently abusive and never satirical. And the discipline in his class was just as perfect. Ernest felt much less sure about that secret. Of the two he decided that probably Whitcombe got more work out of his class.

"I think I got on all right to-day," said Ernest at dinner that night.

"Good," said Whitcombe. "They aren't a bad lot of young devils really. Poor old Pirley irritated them—that's why they went for him."

"That Dickon seems a bright young chap; nice-mannered too."

"He's clever," said Whitcombe, "and we ought to do jolly well with him if we can keep him. But probably he'll be taken away for the last year, and some infernal crammer will get the credit for our work. He's a chap to mark; for if he doesn't give you trouble, the rest won't, and vice versa. Jove! There's the bell, and it's my prep., the first week."

A little later Ernest went down to the double class-room where preparation was held, to ask Whitcombe a question about the time-schedule. He found Whitcombe in a comfortable but undignified position in an easy-chair, reading a novel and making not the slightest attempt at supervision. Yet every boy in the room was working, and all were quiet and orderly. As a matter of fact, Whitcombe was merely reaping the excellent crop which he had previously sown. He could afford now to be quite passive.

But Ernest was staggered, and came rather rashly to the conclusion that there was nothing in it—anybody could manage boys.

II.

Three days later, the boys were in the habit of speaking of Mr. Willis as Ernest. When boys speak of a master by his first name, it is either a very good sign or a very bad sign; if the name is Ernest, it is a very bad sign. Nicknames are another matter; some of the most effective masters have uncomplimentary nicknames.

"Dear Ernest is getting above himself," said Dickon. "He's going to report me to the Milliner. Thus inevitably was the Rev. James Millen designated by his pupils.

"What was the row?" asked a sympathiser.

"We'd had a few words, starting with the Ovid appointed for the day, and dear little Ernest got a bit flustered. He told me to sit down and go out of the room. It wasn't for me to argue. Then when I did try to go out of the room in a sitting position, he said I was insolent. Three more got their town-leave stopped for loud and vulgar laughter. We'd a giddy time with him, and I don't mind betting that as soon as it's his week for prep., there'll be a still giddier time."

"He's like old Pearly-gates." Thus irreverently had the recent Mr. Pirley been known.

"And we'll do so to him and more also," said Dickon, who used in a promiscuous and improper way anything which he remembered from the Scripture lesson.

Ernest Willis was a little depressed that night at dinner. "Things aren't going so smoothly," he said. "I had to punish several chaps to-day. As for Dickon, I've reported him to Millen, and Millen has given him no end of a dressing-down."

"Pity you did that," said Whitcombe.

"Why? He was frightfully impertinent. We aren't allowed to thrash them—which was what he really wanted."

"No, one can't do that, except indirectly," said Whitcombe, smiling as if at some reminiscence. "All the same, it's a great mistake to report. It's a confession of weakness. It's equivalent to saying that you can't manage your own business. Boys have no mercy on a master who reports; they regard him as a weakling and a sneak. I would never report a chap myself—except, of course, in the case of one of those offences which mean immediate expulsion, and we've never had any of those."

"I wish to goodness you'd told me all this before, Whitcombe," said Ernest dolefully.

"I wish I had; I don't know that I'd ever thought much about it. I've always dealt with each case as it turned up, as common sense seemed to suggest. But when you asked me for a theory of discipline the other night, upon my soul, I hadn't got one. Thinking it over, I believe it depends a good deal more on what you don't do than on what you do. You must never lose your temper, for instance, though you may pretend to lose it; you must never get confused, never vacillate, never report, never——"

At this moment the bell rang. Whitcombe said the one word with which he always greeted it when it was his night on duty, and went down to take preparation.

Willis was left to the bitterness of his own thoughts. Calm self-examination showed him that he had lost his temper with boys, that he had got confused, that he had vacillated, and that he had reported. Probably he had done all the other things which Whitcombe would have specified as fatal to discipline if the preparation bell had not interrupted him.

Later on in the evening he decided that remorse was the feeling a man had who, remembering what he himself did as a schoolboy, turned school-master. He realised also the awful uselessness of advice. It is easy to tell a man not to lose his temper, not to get confused, and not to vacillate. But if a man is irritated and changes his mind too rapidly or discovers it too slowly, how is he to avoid these disasters?

The next day was a bad day for Ernest Willis, and on the day after, in a fit of temper, he once more told Dickon that he would report him, and afterwards—though he regretted the mistake—was afraid to go back on his word.

"The days of dear Ernest are numbered," proclaimed Dickon to his satellites. "They will be even as the days of Pearly-gates. He'll be shut up in the housemaid's cupboard. Meanwhile, we'll arrange a few treats for his first prep."

Mr. Pirley had actually been shut up in the housemaid's cupboard, had been released by a domestic servant, and had entered the dining-room, somewhat flushed, twenty minutes late for breakfast.

To his dying day Ernest Willis will not forget the night on which he took preparation for the first time. The class-room was really two rooms with a double door between; the seniors sat in one half and the juniors in the other. It was practically impossible to command both rooms at the same moment. It was a bad arrangement, of course, but the house had not originally been designed as a school.

Willis entered with a novel in his hand and filing himself into the easy-chair in the junior room. The imitation of Whitcombe was perhaps somewhat slavish. There was a minute or two of silence, and then from the senior room came a loud, deep voice—it might possibly have been Dickon's voice, disguised—

"Ernest, stand forth!"

At first Willis could hardly believe his ears. As a piece of cheek this was absolutely monumental. Then he made a dash into the senior room, to discover the culprit if he could, and to inflict terrible punishment as soon as he could decide what punishment to inflict.

And when he entered the senior room, every boy was at work and seemed respectfully surprised to see him. And at the same time there came from the junior room wailings as of despair and cries of "Don't leave us, Ernest! We can't bear it!"

Ernest rushed back to the junior room; and immediately the senior room resumed its stentorian command to Ernest to stand forth.

Thus, by a preconceived plan carefully carried out, Ernest was tossed like a distracted human shuttlecock from one room to the other. Boys laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks. Nobody pretended to do any work. Pandemonium reigned.

But pandemonium makes a good deal of noise, and Whitcombe upstairs heard it. He was not a bad-natured man. He knocked out his pipe, ran downstairs, and entered the class-room. Pandemonium vanished as he opened the door.

Nominally, Mr. Willis, being on duty, was the person in authority, and Whitcombe followed the prescribed etiquette.

"Can you spare Dickon for a few minutes, Mr. Willis? I wish to see him upstairs."

"Certainly," said Mr. Willis. "Dickon, Mr. Whitcombe wants you."

Dickon obeyed with alacrity and wondered what was up.

"Sit down there," said Whitcombe, when they had reached his sitting-room. "I'm going through your last prose with you."

Whitcombe selected the prose from a heap of others. He had not looked at it previously, and Dickon occasionally wrote Latin prose that was by no means bad. This time Whitcombe was not sorry to see at the first glance that Dickon had made a couple of elementary mistakes.

"Take it yourself first and correct the things which you know to be wrong."

Whitcombe paced the room, his hands clenched, his brows contracted. He presented the picture of a man driven, by mistakes in Latin prose, to the verge of murder. And poor Dickon was not aware that Whitcombe did not care one brass farthing about it and was merely doing his best to help Willis.

Dickon breathed hard over the prose. "I'm afraid there's a wrong gender here, sir," he said.

"Afraid? You know. You knew it when you did it. You can't help your want of natural abilities, but you can help mistakes of that kind. And what sort of construction's this? Look at it, booby! Rewrite the whole thing, and give it to me by nine to-morrow."

Whitcombe stormed on and on. Dickon had no longer the immoral support of other sinners as in the room downstairs. He became much reduced in spirit. He was conscious that so far he had done no work in preparation, and that there would be more trouble with Whitcombe in the morning. When he went back to the preparation-room, he informed the boys next him that he'd got it right in the neck from Whitcombe, and went to work feverishly. It occurred to other boys that the reckoning would come in the morning, and they also began to prepare work for Mr. Millen and Mr. Whitcombe—but not work for Mr. Willis. However, the thread of rebellion was for the time broken. The room became almost quiet.

"I'm much obliged to you, Whitcombe, for looking in as you did. I simply didn't know what to do with them."

"That's all right, old man," said Whitcombe. "But it's the kind of trick that can't be played twice; they'd smell a rat."

"And I've said I'd report Collins and Barstow; I was driven to it. Shall I let them off?"

"No. But it's bad, either way. Millen doesn't like too much reporting; looks as if you couldn't keep your end up."

"I suppose I can't. Do you think I'd better resign? It's no good waiting to be fired out."

"No. Give it a chance. You've made a bad start, but you may pull round yet. Millen's bound to make some allowance for want of experience; I'll bet he did when he fixed your salary."

III.

Millen did not like so much reporting, and he told Willis so. He had heard the noise in preparation the previous evening, and proposed later in the week to pay the class-room a surprise visit. "That may help you," he said with a sigh, "but it all depends on you in the end, Willis."

The morning's school had convinced Willis that he was no good; no boy had done any work for him, and the only boys who kept quiet during their lesson with him were secretly preparing work for the other masters.

In the afternoon he started out for a depressing walk in the rain. He lingered for a minute watching some inexpert play at single-stick between Dickon and an Irish boy.

"Like a turn, sir?" said Dickon, with a twinkle in his eye. It would be good fun to smack dear Ernest over the legs.

"I don't mind," said Willis, and threw off his mackintosh.

Ten seconds later Dickon was for the first time regarding Ernest as his master. Neither wore any guard, and Willis played very lightly. Dickon found himself tapped here and there, just as often as Willis pleased; his own attack was absolutely futile.

"Now, then—just to finish it," said Willis, and Dickon's stick flew up to the roof.

"My word!" said Dickon. "Never saw anything like it. You let me off jolly easy, sir. Thanks awfully." He picked up Willis's mackintosh for him.

"Well," said Willis, "we are not quite matched as to size"—the difference was not great—"and I've spent a good deal longer over learning that game than you have."

"You must have done. Wish to goodness it was one of the things you taught us here!"

"I'll give you a few hints if you like, one of these days," said Willis, as he struggled with his mackintosh. "You want practice—you're slow."

"Thanks most awfully. That will be ripping. I say, sir, if you wanted anything in the town, the weather's rather beastly, and I'd be very glad to get it for you. I was going down anyhow."

"So am I—I want the walk. Come along with me if you like."

"When I first came here, sir," said Dickon, "I had a row with old—I mean, with Mr. Whitcombe. Next day he had a turn at single-stick with me. He's not half as good as you are, but he's a lot better than I am. And he didn't let me off like you. Worst lamming I ever had in my life. He was smiling all the time, too."

"Ah!" said Willis. "That's what I ought to have done with you."

"Well, I couldn't have grumbled if you had. But—er—that'll be all right, sir," and Dickon, who appeared somewhat embarrassed, changed the subject.

On his return from town, Dickon joined a group in the playground. "I say," said one, incredulous, "Paddy says that dear Ernest is pretty good with a single-stick. It's all poppy-cock, isn't it?"

"It is," said Dickon. "He isn't pretty good. He's absolutely top-hole. I'm going to suck up like fun to get some lessons out of him. Surprise of my life. Did a jolly decent thing, too." Dickon described it. "And this is the first time he's done any schoolmastering—bit green at it; shouldn't wonder if he turned out all right in the end. Anyhow, he's better than old Pearly-gates."

Willis, who was not deeply versed in the mysterious working of boys' minds, received a surprise that evening. Of the organised disorder of the previous evening there was not a trace. Occasionally there was a little talking—more than there would have been if Mr. Whitcombe had been on duty—but Willis found that it ceased as soon as he spoke. The room was perfectly quiet when the Rev. James Millen, noiselessly shod, made one of those silent and dramatic entrances for which among his pupils he was famous—or shall we say notorious? He held a weekly review in one hand.

He followed the prescribed etiquette, Willis being the authority in that room at that time.

"With your permission, Mr. Willis, I should like to look at the work of one or two of my young friends here."

"Certainly, Mr. Millen."

The work was satisfactory. Mr. Millen became genial. He told Dickon an amusing story—at any rate, Dickon and the boys near him were obviously much amused by it. Then he turned to Willis. "Seen this week's Spectator Mr. Willis? An interesting article on the Intelligence of Domestic Fowls." He left the paper with him, and Willis was glad of it, for he had brought no novel down with him, and time was hanging heavily on his hands.

A few weeks later, Whitcombe observed to Willis one night at dinner that he seemed to be getting on all right.

"Not so badly," Willis admitted cheerfully.

"Discovered the secret of discipline—eh?"

"I can keep pretty good order now," said Willis thoughtfully. "All the same, if anybody asked me what the secret of discipline was, I couldn't tell him."

"No," said Whitcombe. "No more could I. No more could Millen."

The bell rang out loudly.

"Jove!" said Whitcombe perfunctorily. It was his night on duty.

Copyright, 1909, by Barry Pain, in the United States of America.