The Doctor was principal of Pendleton Academy, and he always presided
over the room in which sat the larger boys, nearly fifty in number.
His desk and chair were on a low dais and he sat facing the pupils.
He was a large man, with a ruddy face, and thick hair as white as the
snow that was falling outside. He had been a teacher fifty years,
and three generations in Pendleton owed to him most of the learning that
is obtained from books. He opened his letters one by one, and read
them slowly.
Harry moved far away into the German forest with old Tacitus. He was
proud of his Latin and he did not mean to lose his place as first in the
class. The other boys also were absorbed in their books. It was seldom
that all were studious at the same time, but this was one of the rare
moments. There was no shuffling of feet, and fifty heads were bent over
their desks.
It was a full half hour before Harry looked up from his Tacitus.
His first glance was at the window. The snow was driving hard, and the
forest had become a white blur. He looked next at the Doctor and he saw
that the ruddy face had turned white. The old man was gazing intently
at an open letter in his hand.
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