Read The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper for Free Online Page A

of Dr. Styles! Unthinkable!
    â€œI mean, have you done much drawing,” Mr. Pearson explained.
    â€œOh yes, sir,” I replied.
    â€œWell, if I were you I should stick to it,” he said. “I should like to see some more; I might be able to give you a few hints. Only you mustn’t caricature the Head, you know. I tell you what: make a drawing of me and let me see it. I think we had better burn this.” And as he walked to the stove and thrust my drawing between the bars I realized that Mr. Pearson was not only willing to overlook the enormity but was actually making himself an accessory after the fact.
    Although my chief feeling, as I left him, was that I had been dealing with a mild-mannered lunatic, that conversation bore fruit. I see now that had Pearson been of the usual narrow and sycophantic breed of assistant master to which I was accustomed, and had he, in the conventional manner, punished me in the interests of discipline, he would probably have set back the development of my latent talent (if talent is not too strong a word). But he had the knowledge to perceive signs of an ability which I did not suspect myself, and the wit to encourage it in direct opposition to the narrow discipline of the school, and that despite the fact that he was not normally lax on points of order.
    I shall always feel grateful to Mr. Pearson, for that interview initiated a course of striving and suddenly developed interest on my part, and criticism and help on his, which, if it did not teach me to draw, at least set me on the path I was later able to pursue. Unfortunately I was soon to be deprived of his encouragement, for at the school prize-giving he volunteered to assist in the concert. He was so ill advised as to entertain the audience of pupils and parents with a humorous imitation of a lady at her dressing-table, and the ability shown damned him quite definitely in the eyes of our principal as a worldling. The actor was, by the nature of his calling, beyond the pale in Dr. Styles’s estimation, and Mr. Pearson’s histrionic competence approached so closely to proficiency in that unholy craft that he was obviously unfitted to preside over innocent, budding youth. He was dismissed.
    â€”
    Years afterward I saw Pearson again. He was sitting on a pavement in the West End of London, his back against some railings and a selection of pictures chalked upon boards on either side of him. He was thinner and his hair was white, but I recognized him, though he showed no recollection of me. I was with a—er—lady and had to content myself with depositing in his cap as much money as I could spare in the particular circumstances of the evening. When I sought the same spot on the following day he had gone; nor did I ever see him again.

Chapter 3
    The second outstanding event which I associate with Dr. Styles’s school deserves, I feel, the beginning of a new chapter.
    I have already referred to the constant references to blood which occurred in the course of our religious teaching. These were, of course, purely symbolic, and made by our principal, they were, I think, no more than expressions of zest for the vindictive form of religion which he favoured. Nevertheless I became accustomed to the familiar usage of the noun and I believe my thoughts turned almost sub-consciously to the attributes of blood.
    This seems a suitable place for me to set forth my own feelings on this matter of blood. Most people, I have found, harbour a strange dislike for blood, a dislike so strong that the sight and smell of it as it wells from a wound or a nose is sufficient to engender in them faintness or nausea. Even amongst my school-fellows I had observed this curious phenomenon. Such feelings puzzled me then and always have puzzled me. The colour of blood is very far from unpleasant; it is a fine, rich tint which is viewed without qualms in other objects. A person who shrinks from the sight of blood does not, for example,