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knee and a pot of beer beside him. This ideal life postulates, of course, the satisfactory earning power of the artist based, presumably, upon the obvious market value of pictures of girls with nothing on; and we could not reconcile it with Mr. Pearson’s descent to schoolmastering. Speculation and romance grew up around him, but I need not retail the several suppositious stories which one or two of my imaginative school-fellows brought forward to account for it.
    I question whether Dr. Styles was aware of his usher’s previous occupation, for he would undoubtedly have classed the artist with the actor in the lowest category of worldlings. Strange as it may seem, the turpitude of the artist was almost universally assumed amongst the middle-classes in my younger days, though the belief in his earning capacity was entirely contrary to that advanced by the lad Sanders. I am not at all sure that the old popular conception is dead even now.
    Drawing was one of the subjects included in the curriculum of the school, and it was “taken” by Mr. Pearson; not because Dr. Styles assumed any particular ability in drawing on the part of the new-comer (for it is highly improbable that he suspected such ability), but simply for the reason that the subject always had been taken by the assistant master. The teaching consisted in the handing out of lithographed sheets representing various objects from tea-cups (Elementary) to horses (Advanced). These pictures we laboriously copied in pencil, and when our efforts reached sufficient accuracy to satisfy the master in charge, we finished our drawings by cleaning them up with stale bread and “lining them in” with hard, wiry outlines made by a sharp pencil. This method of “teaching” drawing had always prevailed at the school and Mr. Pearson was not encouraged to amend it. Nor did he show any inclination to do so; possibly because he felt no desire to advertise his own artistic attainments, but more probably from sheer apathy.
    In common with several of my school-fellows I was in the habit of relieving the tedium of these useless drawing lessons by executing crude sketches of a fanciful nature on spare sheets of paper which could be slipped under the legal drawing on the approach of our master. But on one occasion the quickness of my hand was insufficient to deceive the eye of Mr. Pearson.
    â€œWhat have you got there, Carnac?” a voice asked at my elbow.
    Reluctantly I drew out a sheet of paper and handed it to him, watching his examination of my unlawful sketch in considerable apprehension. After studying the sketch for some moments in silence, Mr. Pearson folded it and placed it in his pocket. “Come to me after school,” he said; and passed on to the next boy.
    I assumed, not unreasonably, that at the forthcoming interview the principal would be invited to act as co-critic with Mr. Pearson in the matter of my drawing, and there was no hope that it would be viewed with an indulgent eye. For it represented Dr. Styles and the treatment was, to say the least, unflattering. It was therefore a pleasant relief when, remaining behind after school, I found that Mr. Pearson was preparing to treat the matter as one between ourselves. He greeted my hang-dog approach in a manner which I can best describe as one of cheery severity.
    â€œYou know, you mustn’t do this sort of thing, Carnac,” he said, fishing out the drawing and examining it afresh.
    â€œNo, sir,” I agreed.
    â€œMaking drawings of Dr. Styles. It’s not the thing at all.”
    My forlorn hope that the subject portrayed had not been identified vanished. “No, sir,” I said again.
    He grinned. “It’s not at all bad, though. Not at all bad.”
    Relieved, I allowed my expression of penitence to relax.
    â€œHave you done much of this?” he asked, holding up the sketch.
    â€œOh no, sir!” I assured him hastily. Habitually to make libellous drawings