"I know all about that, sir. Or I shouldn't be using a flue-brush, hey—what! What's your idea?"
Sorrell explained his ideas to this round and sympathetic and vigorous man whose head was bigger than any other head in Winstonbury. Mr. Porteous was a learned failure, as the world understands failure. His unconventionality and the uncouth vigour of his exterior had rendered him unacceptable to the gods behind his God.
"In brief—you want your boy coaching for a good school?"
"That's it."
"Any special subject?"
"He has not developed any special inclination—yet."
"So much the better. I can give him anything from Sanscrit to the Differential Calculus. But you said something about boxing."
"Yes,—but"
"I can teach him to box."
"You can, sir?"
"Well,—I was the middle-weight man of my years at Cambridge. Knocked out the Dark Blue in the first round—two years running. He's a Cabinet Minister—to-day."
They smiled at each other.
"I think you are the very man I want, sir. I don't wish my boy to be pushed into a groove."
"Quite so. I shan't bore him, my dear chap. I'm never bored. Light a pipe."
Then came the question of fees. Sorrell began a little tentatively, only to find that there was no need for him to be tentative with Mr. Porteous.
"I like teaching, my dear chap. I get paid for it. Fees? Well,—what can you afford?"
"Would two guineas a week rage?"
"That would satisfy me. Two and a half hours in the morning and two in the afternoon. I may have to go out sometimes, but the boy can carry on. Method's the thing. Now, what about you?"
"How,—sir?"
"I shan't be bleeding you?"
"No. I can manage two guineas quite well."
"Well,—that's that," said Mr. Porteous; "come and watch me finish my flue."
