_Atlantis_? Is it a jolly story?'

'It isn't a story,' said Quentin. And just then the classical master
came by. 'What's that about _Atlantis_?' he said.

'It's a book the new chap's got,' said Smithson.

The classical master glanced at the book.

'And how much do you understand of this?' he asked, fluttering the
leaves.

'Nearly all, I think,' said Quentin.

'You should say "sir" when you speak to a master,' said the classical
one; and to himself he added, 'little prig.' Then he said to Quentin: 'I
am afraid you will find yourself rather out of your element among
ordinary boys.'

'I don't think so,' said Quentin calmly, adding as an afterthought
'sir.'

'I'm glad you're so confident,' said the classical master and went.

'My word,' said Smithson minor in a rather awed voice, 'you did answer
him back.'

'Of course I did,' said Quentin. 'Don't _you_ answer when you're spoken
to?'

Smithson minor informed the interested school that the new chap was a
prig, but he had a cool cheek, and that some sport might be expected.

After supper the boys had half an hour's recreation. Quentin, who was
tired, picked up a book which a big boy had just put down. It was the
_Midsummer Night's Dream_.

'Hi, you kid,' said the big boy, 'don't pretend you read Shakespeare for
fun. That's simple swank, you know.'

'I don't know what swank is,' said Quentin, 'but I like the _Midsummer_
whoever wrote it.'

'Whoever _what_?'

'Well,' said Quentin, 'there's a good deal to be said for its being
Bacon who wrote the plays.'

Of course that settled it. From that moment, he was called not de Ward,
which was strange enough, but Bacon. He rather liked that. But the next
day it was Pork, and the day after Pig, and that was unbearable.

He was at the bottom of his class, for he knew no Latin as it is taught
in schools, only odd words that English words come from, and some Latin
words that are used in science. And I cannot pretend that his arithmetic
was anything but contemptible.

The book called _Atlantis_ had been looked at by most of the school, and
Smithson major, not nearly such an agreeable boy as his brother, hit on
a new nickname.

'Atlantic Pork's a good name for a swanker,' he said. 'You know the
rotten meat they have in Chicago.'

This was in the playground before dinner. Quentin, who had to keep his
mouth shut very tight these days, because, of course, a boy of ten
cannot cry before other chaps, shut the book he