m in the way of classics or
mathematics. Philips, a former understudy to Gus, was called upon, but
with unsatisfactory results, and Cotton, _mirabile dictu_, was compelled
in sheer desperation to try to do his own work. Frankly, the Fifth of
St. Amory's was beyond Jim's very small attainments, classical or
otherwise. He had been hoisted up to that serene height by no means
_honoris causa_, but _aetatis causa_. Jim was verging on six feet, and
he filled his clothes very well into the bargain, and though his
scholarship was strictly junior school, the spectacle of Jim in Fourth
Form Etons would have been too entrancing a sight for daily
contemplation. Hence he had got his remove. Thrown over by Gus, unable
to discover a second jackal for the term so far, he had been left to the
tender mercy of Corker, Merishall and Co., and Jim was inclined to think
that they showed no quarter to a fallen foe. Corker had been distilled
venom on the particular morning with which this chapter deals on the
subject of Jim's Greek. Herodotus, as translated by Jim with the help of
a well-thumbed Bohn's crib, had emerged as a most unalluring mess of
pottage, and Dr. Moore had picked out Bohn's plums from Jim's paste with
unerring accuracy. Whilst Cotton was wishing the roof would fall down on
Corker's head and kill him, the other fellows in the Fifth were enjoying
the fun. Gus Todd, though, felt for his old friend more than a touch of
pity, and when old Corker left Jim alone finally, Gus very cleverly kept
his attention away from Jim's quarter. When Corker finally drew his toga
around him and hurried out, Jim Cotton gathered together his own books
and lounged heavily into the street, sick of school, books, Corker, and
hating Gus with a mighty sullen hate. For Jim had remarked Gus's
sprightliness in the Greek ordeal, but was not clever enough to see that
Gus's performance had been only for old friendship's sake. Jim, however,
put down Todd's device as mere "side," "show-off," "toadyism," and other
choice things, all trotted out specially for his eyes. When he reached
his room he flung his Herodotus into the nearest chair, and himself into
the most comfortable one, and then beat a vicious serenade on his
firegrate with the poker until dinner time.

In the evening, while Jim was moodily planted before a small pile of
books, he received a visitor, no less a personage than Philips, Jim's
occasional hack.

"Well," said Jim, surlily, "what do you want