When I went in Macdonald shook hands with me formally, and I noticed that his school voice and manner were prim and professional. I turned to the bairns and said: "Hullo, kids!" and they rose in a body and said: "Good afternoon, sir!" "Ah!" I whispered to Macdonald, "I see I ought to have said: 'Good afternoon, children!' eh?" and he smiled professionally. The higher classes were drawing. The model was a vase. I walked round the class ... and swore silently. I had spent two years persuading these bairns that there is no boundary line in nature; a white vase appears to have lines as boundaries simply because it usually stands in front of a dark background. I made them work in the background to show up the model, although I never gave them vases or pails; my drawing was all outside sketching of trees and houses. He was making them "line in" the drawing. "I am not much good at drawing," he explained apologetically, "as a matter of fact I know nothing about it." "In that case," I said, "why not let them go on with the methods I gave them? I know something about the subject." He asked what my methods were and I explained them in a few minutes. He expressed his gratitude and seemed honestly glad to learn something about the subject. "I won't take them out drawing though," he said; "an inspector might come to the school in my absence." "You conscientious devil!" I said, "let's have a squint at their exercise books." As he moved to the cupboard a boy whispered to his neighbour and Macdonald turned like a flash; the lad visibly quailed before his fixing eye. I fancied that the next inspector's report would commence with the words: "The discipline of this school is excellent." The books were much neater than mine had been. I began to look for blots, but the search was hopeless. "Oh! for God's sake, Macdonald, show me Peter Mackay's book; surely a good healthy blot will be found there!" But Peter's book was scrupulously clean. "I had to deal with that boy with a stern hand," said Macdonald grimly, and as I stood looking at the book I saddened. "On the outside of this book you should write the words: 'Peter Mackay ... a Tragedy, by William Macdonald,'" I said, but I don't think the man understood me. The three o'clock interval came. "Stand!" commanded Macdonald, and the class rose as one child. "Front seat ... quick march!" The boys saluted him as they passed out, and the girls curtsied. I tried not to laugh at the fatuous fellow's inculcation of "respect." Poor devil, I think they will hate him in after years; he is of the brand of dominie that is responsible for the post-schooldays habit of shying divots and opprobrious epithets at teachers passing along the road. On the way out Janet touched my arm playfully, but the eagle-eyed disciplinarian saw the action and he glared at her. "Had you any trouble with swearing?" he asked when the last boy had gone out. "Not particularly. Have you?" "I've put it down with a very firm hand."