There was to be no
second chance in the event of failure. From the way Uncle Frederick
talked James almost got the idea that he attached a spiritual
importance to a connexion with sheep. He seemed to strive with a sort
of religious frenzy to convert James to West Australia. So James went
to Harrow House with much the same emotions that the Old Guard must
have felt on their way up the hill at Waterloo.
Harrow House was a grim mansion on the outskirts of Dover. It is
better, of course, to be on the outskirts of Dover than actually in
it, but when you have said that you have said everything. James's
impressions of that portion of his life were made up almost entirely of
chalk. Chalk in the school-room, chalk all over the country-side, chalk
in the milk. In this universe of chalk he taught bored boys the
rudiments of Latin, geography, and arithmetic, and in the evenings,
after a stately cup of coffee with Mr Blatherwick in his study, went to
his room and wrote stories. The life had the advantage of offering few
distractions. Except for Mr Blatherwick and a weird freak who came up
from Dover on Tuesdays and Fridays to teach French, he saw nobody.
It was about five weeks from the beginning of term that the river of
life at Harrow House became ruffled for the new assistant-master.
I want you to follow me very closely here.
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