“I know you did,” said Mr. Bent. “And _I_ said Chowdler, because I bet that he has been telling you his story of the week--we have all heard it--to wit, how little Simpkin looked up at him with a wistful smile and said, ‘Sir, do you think the new headmaster understands anything about boys?’” “Suppose he did!” said Mr. Plummer defiantly. “What then?” “Only,” replied Mr. Bent, “that it isn’t a _very_ likely thing for a boy to say, on his own. I know little Simpkin; he’s in my Form. All Chowdler’s pets are in my Form. A nasty, greasy, oily little beast. He tried ‘the wistful’ on with me once, but never again.” “The fact that you think him oily and greasy,” retorted Mr. Plummer, “is no proof that he didn’t say it.” “I never said it was,” cried Mr. Bent, raising his voice, “and I don’t doubt that little Simpkin _did_ say it and will say it again till he gets another cue. What _does_ amaze me is that, with all his experience, Chowdler has never learned that boys encourage us in our illusions by quoting at us our own pet ideas and phrases. It isn’t conscious hypocrisy--merely an instinct of self-preservation, or an amiable desire to please. They approach us, as _we_ should approach some beast of uncertain temper, with the sounds that experience has shown to be most soothing.” “So you have said before,” snorted Mr. Plummer. “But, anyhow, you admit that Chowdler has experience; and Flaggon has none.” “Pooh! experience indeed!” cried Mr. Bent contemptuously. “What’s experience? A snare and a delusion, unless you can bring an unbiassed mind to bear on it; which schoolmasters never can. The man who looks at this view, for the first time, with the naked eye, sees far more of it than the man who looks at it for the hundredth time through smoked glasses. Experience is the smoke on the glasses; it’s the curse of our profession. We are all much more efficient when we’re young than we ever are afterwards. Give _me_ the young and inexperienced man.” “Tipham, for example,” said Mr. Plummer drily. “Oh, Tipham’s an exception,” replied Mr. Bent airily. “Tipham never _was_ young. He was born with a greased head, grey flannel trousers, and a terror of being thought sane. But I can tell you, Chowdler was ten times more efficient as a master fifteen years ago, when you and I first came to the school, than he is now. We all become progressively greater idiots as we grow ripe in experience.” “Bosh!” said Mr. Plummer. CHAPTER VIII THE PARENTS’ COMMITTEE