He comforted himself presently by thinking, “I must have tremendous courage to have got so far. Many people wouldn’t have got out of that naked little room in San Francisco.” He drew a little courage from the illusion of his own courage. Presently he realised that the world did not end on the doorstep of a tourist agency. He found several possible jobs in the newspaper. “English jobs sound somehow less fierce than American jobs,” he thought and, buoyed up by a desperate hope, he called on the headmaster of an English school for Chinese. “I’m afraid you haven’t had much experience of teaching,” said the headmaster, a gentle, uncertain young man, looking at Edward unhappily. “It is I who am afraid,” replied Edward courteously. The school was in great need of teachers. The headmaster did not seem to mind whether the teachers could teach—if only a specious appearance of teaching was sustained in his dozen classrooms. Edward was engaged at a small salary to live in the school and teach a class of fifty boys in “all ordinary English subjects.” There was one professional teacher in the school—a woman. The other teachers’ desks were occupied by one or two unemployed merchant seamen, some bright young women stenographers, a stray woman journalist teaching “as a stunt,” and two or three sullen Chinese whose classes were always in an uproar. Edward nearly fainted as the headmaster took him into the classroom on the first day and introduced him to the boys. “I am sure you will do your best ... Mr. Williams who lives in England and has spent much time in America ... giving his time to help Class C in their study of English.... Now, boys, we must all do our best ... make Mr. Williams welcome....”