ifth,
extricated Michael with a roar, and marched with him up and down the
dusky corridor in a ferocious discussion of the proposal.

"Why do you want to give up your Classics?" bellowed Dr. Brownjohn.

In the echoing corridor Michael's voice sounded painfully weak against
his monitor's.

"I don't want to give them up, sir. Only I would like to learn History
as well," he explained.

"What's the good of History?" roared the Doctor.

"I thought I'd like to learn it," said Michael.

"You shouldn't think, you infamous young sluggard."

"And I could go on reading Classics, sir, I could really."

"Bah!" shouted Dr. Brownjohn. "Impudent nonsense, you young sloth. Why
didn't you get your Certificate?"

"I failed in Arithmetic, sir."

"You'll fail in your whole life, boy," prophesied Dr. Brownjohn in
bull-deep accents of reproach. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"No, sir," said Michael. "I don't think I am, because I worked jolly
hard."

"Worked, you abominable little loafer? You've never worked in your life.
You could be the finest scholar in the school, and you're merely a
coruscation of slatternly, slipshod paste. Bah! What do you expect to do
when you leave school? Um?"

"I want to go to Oxford."

"Then get the Balliol Scholarship."

"I don't want to be at Balliol," said Michael.

"Then get the major scholarship at Trinity, Cambridge."

"I don't intend to go to Cambridge," said Michael.

"Good heavens, boy," roared Dr. Brownjohn, "are you trying to arrange
your own career?"

"No, sir," said Michael. "But I want to go to St. Mary's, Oxford."

"Then get a scholarship at St. Mary's."

"But I don't want to be a Scholar of any college. I want to go up as a
Commoner."

The veins on Dr. Brownjohn's forehead swelled with wrath, astonishment
and dismay.

"Get out of my sight," he thundered. "Get back into your class-room.
I've done with you; I take no more interest in you. You're here to earn
glory for your school, you're here to gain a scholarship, not to air
your own opinions. Get out of my sight, you young scoundrel. How dare
you argue with me? You shan't go into the History Sixth! You shall stew
in your own obstinate juice in the Upper Fifth until I choose to move
you out of it. Do you hear? Go back into your class-room. I'll write to
your mother. She's an idiotic woman, and you're a slovenly, idle,
good-for-nothing cub."

Overwhelmed with failure and very sensitive to the inquisitive glances
o