“That’s the way to stuff sausages!”

His language grew more picturesque and unrestrained every day.  He belonged distinctly to an older and less circumspect generation, and he was a good deal of an eccentric besides.  His heart was of gold, and no one ever took the pedagogue’s mission more seriously, but whatever he possessed of refinement went into his appreciation of the language that was his life’s passion.  When he spoke Swedish, he called a spade a spade in a manner that gave Keith shock after shock.  Always rather given to a certain aristocratic exclusiveness in his speech, Keith had through his association with Murray become something of a prude in this respect.  He could still descend to obscenities when his “manliness” had to be proved, but vulgarity repelled him irresistibly.

Until then he had never dreamt of questioning any authority.  Even at this juncture he obeyed directions explicity and maintained on the whole his reputation as a good pupil.  But a tendency to criticism was growing within him, and from the men who taught him it began gradually to pass to the subjects taught.  There came a day when the truth could no longer be evaded:  he was bored most of the time.  And the result was that he grew more and more listless.

If asked, Keith could not have told what was wrong.  In fact, it is not at all certain that he would have admitted that anything was wrong.  No rebellious stirrings had yet found tangible form within him.

He had to learn long lists of foreign kings that had been dead for ages.  He was even expected to know when each king ascended his throne and left it.  He had to learn mathematic formulas and grammatic rules.  And on the heels of each rule hung at least a dozen exceptions.  It was impossible to tell which were of greater importance, the rules or the exceptions.  He had also to learn the exact number of pistils and stamens possessed by every flower likely to be found in the vicinity of the Swedish capital.  The same thing happened in every subject embraced by the curriculum.  There was no end to it.  Yet he did not rebel.  Every one knew that there was no other way of teaching things, so what was the use of rebelling?

His memory was good, although tricky.  In a case of aroused interest he could absorb an astonishing number of dates, or figures, or lines of poetry, at first glance or hearing.  But he could also drop them as if he had never heard of them the moment his interest was gone.  And they always seemed to drop out of sight when he left school and returned home.  That word interest seemed to give the key to the situation.  And all sorts of vague and queer and inexplicable things within himself determined whether he was to be interested or not.  It was not a question of choice or will.  He was or was not.