This was the real examination: some of the questions were simple, some difficult, embracing various subjects. But, simple or difficult, it was all one, for, taken by surprise, ill-educated, ill-grounded, the boys could not answer. One of them alone proved himself equal to the emergency. You need not be told that it was Henry Arkell. Not at a single question did he hesitate, till at length the dean told him, with a smile, _not_ to answer, until the questions had gone the round of the school. Of all branches of education, save their rote of Latin and Greek, the boys were entirely ignorant, though some of the dean's questions were ludicrously simple. "Can you make the square of a cube?" Nobody answered, save by a prodigious deal of coughing, and Henry Arkell had once more to be appealed to. "What is the difference between a right angle and an acute one?" More coughing, and then a dead silence. The dean happened to be looking hard at one particular boy, or the boy fancied so, and his ears became as red as the head master's. "If you please, Mr. Dean, our desk is not in algebra." "Who was Caligula?" continued the dean. "King of France in the ninth century," was the prompt answer from one who thought he was in luck. It was now the dean's turn to cough, as he replaced the question by another: "Can you tell me anything about Charles the Second?" "He invented black lap-dogs with long ears." The dean nearly choked. "And was beheaded," added a timid voice. "Was he?" retorted the dean. "Can you say anything about Charles the First, and the events of his reign?" "Yes, sir. He found out the Gunpowder Plot, and was succeeded by Oliver Cromwell." "Where are the Bahama Isles," asked the dean, in despair. "In the Mediterranean," cried a tall boy.--"And they are very fertile," added another. The dean paused a hopeless pause. "Can you spell 'Dutch?'" "D-u-c-h." "D-u-t-s-h." "D-u-s-h-t," escaped from various tongues, drowning other novel phases of the word. "Spell 'Cane,'" frowned the dean, though he was laughing inwardly. "K-a-n-e," was the eager reply. "Perhaps you can spell 'birch,'" roared Dr. Ferraday, an irascible prebendary. They could: "B-u-r-c-h." "What was the social condition of the Ancient Britons when their country was invaded by Julius Cæsar?" the dean asked, rubbing his face. "They always went about naked, and never shaved, and their clothes were made of the skins of beasts." "This is frightful," interrupted Dr. Ferraday. "The school reflects the greatest discredit upon--somebody," glaring through his spectacles at the purple and scarlet faces of the masters. "There's only one boy who is not a living monument of ignorance. He--what's your name, boy?" "Arkell, sir." "True; Arkell," assented Dr. Ferraday. He knew who he was perfectly well, but he was the proudest man of all the canons, and would not condescend to show that he remembered. "Sir, for your age you are a brilliant scholar."