The Dean started. “Nineteen! Oh, dear
me, dear me! this is worse than I thought—far
worse. I am afraid, Mr. Carter, I shall have to
write to your father.”
Guttural with emotion, Mr. Carter gasped: “I
mean to work—indeed I do.”
Again the Dean frantically searched on his desk to
discover the subject in which Mr. Carter had failed;
again was unsuccessful. Deep thought ravelled
his brow. His fingers drummed indecision on the
table. It was a telling picture of one struggling
between duty and kindliness—masterly as
the result of long practice.
“Mr. Carter,” the Dean summed up, “I
will consider your case more fully to-night.
Against my better judgment I may perhaps decide not
on this occasion to communicate with your father.
But remember this. At the very outset of your
career you have strained to breaking-point the confidence
of your teachers. Only by stupendous efforts on
your part can that confidence be restored. These
failures, believe me, will dog you from now until
you are qualified—nay, will dog your whole
professional career. That will do.”
In a convulsion of relief and of agitation beneath
this appalling prospect the dogged man quavered thanks;
stumbled from the room.
George laughed. “Same old dressing-down,”
he said. “Don’t you ever alter the
formula?”
“It’s very effective,” the Dean
replied. “That’s the sixth this morning.
Unfortunately I couldn’t remember in what subject
that boy had failed; so he didn’t get the best
part—the part about that being the one
subject of all others which, if failed in, predicted
ruin.”
“It was biology in my case,” George told
him. “I trembled with funk.”
“I think most of you do. It’s fortunate
that all you men when you first come up are afraid
of your fathers. It gives us a certain amount
of hold over you. If the thing were done properly,
both at the ’Varsities and the hospitals, there
would be a system of marks and reports just as at
schools. You are only boys when you first come
up, and you should be treated as boys; instead, you
are left free and irresponsible. It ruins dozens
of men every year.”
“Perhaps that’s why I’m here now,”
George responded. “You know I got ploughed?”
The Dean told George how sorry he had been to hear
it. He questioned: “Bad luck, I suppose?
I thought it was a sitter for you this time.”
“Yes, rotten luck.”
“It’s unfortunate, you know. You
would have got a house appointment. I’m
afraid you will miss that mow. There will be a
crowd of very hot men up with you in October, junior
to you, who will get the vacancies. What will
you do?”
George shrugged and laughed.
The Dean frowned; interpreted the shrug. “Well,
you should care,” he said. “You ought
to be looking around you. Won’t your uncle
help you to buy a partnership?”
