closely. I was interested to notice that the young master wasn't sufficiently uninhibiteddespite the recent massageto take the beautiful cock in his hand to examine it.
A good doctor, I think, I said.
Mine was done by a butcher, he said with a wry smile.
I found myself liking the young instructor very much. I resolved to see that he derived benefit from my admiration. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, of average height and build, and at first glance quite suitable for prep-school life. But his mouth was a little full, his eyes a little vulnerabledespite what he must have seen in the warfor the cruel world of Cornhill.
What I have seen already, he said, makes me wonder if I really belong here. At Cornhill, I mean.
Or any of them, I said. Stick it out for the year. I think you'll find it interesting, and not harmful. I meant the latter as a promise. I think he recognized it as such.
I shall, he said with a smile.
I put him on the spot. Are they afraid of me?
He hesitated. I was glad he was the type who thought things through. In effect, I had asked him to make a choice; perhaps he had intended to stay neutral. He had only to say, I don't know to remain neutral. Yes, he said. They are afraid of you. That's what it amounts to. Are you afraid of them?
Only of their stupidity.
Seemingly, I had made my peace with Cornhill, having exacted from them the special room. This was exactly what I wanted them to think. It hadn't been a token gesture. Though Bill Butterworth was the least of the masters, his room had been as good as the best, the headmaster would know that I appreciated it.
Our new room was in a stretch of continuous buildings that otherwise housed only senior masters and the headmaster. It was a one-story section with high-raftered ceilings. As I moved my clothes into the spacious closet I noticed with interest not only that there was a trap door leading to the attic, but that there was a built-in iron ladder giving easy access to this trap door. More of this later.
The day following our move into the new room, I returned to classes and applied myself to my studies, to the obvious relief of most of the masters.
On Saturday, I went alone into Waterbury, a dingy industrial city of which most of Connecticut seems ashamed. Factories, tenements and commercial buildings clung to the slope that rose steeply from a narrow valley; they were so ugly they were picturesque. In a directory I had spotted what seemed like a halfhearted advertisement for a private detective. A hunch made me follow it up.
The private detective proved to be exactly what I needed, and I recognized this at once. He was, by belief and vocation, a painter still in search of the perfect means of expression. Though I was taken with what he was willing to show me of his work, he deprecated the paintings as painfully far from what he would be willing to have the public view. He was nearly thirty. I found it commendable that he was in no rush to reach the public.
As for the private detective end of it, he was the son of a man who had risen high in the Pinkerton Agency. He had assimilated a thorough knowledge of some of the darker workings of the agency and meant to use the talents acquired only enough to provide a marginal living for himself, thereby leaving as much time as possible to find what he was seeking in art. He was, by the way, an abstract expressionist.
He lived modestly and seemed content. After talking with him only ten minutes I resolved to put him on a large enough retainer so that he'd never have to work for others. I was aware from the beginning that I had put him in possession of information he could use to blackmail me, but I was certain I could trust him not to try it, that he'd recognize I wasn't the sort of person who could be blackmailed with impunity.
What would be your attitude if I were to request you to commit an illegal act? I asked.
He was thoughtful for a moment. This was good. I tend to distrust glib men. I would
A good doctor, I think, I said.
Mine was done by a butcher, he said with a wry smile.
I found myself liking the young instructor very much. I resolved to see that he derived benefit from my admiration. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, of average height and build, and at first glance quite suitable for prep-school life. But his mouth was a little full, his eyes a little vulnerabledespite what he must have seen in the warfor the cruel world of Cornhill.
What I have seen already, he said, makes me wonder if I really belong here. At Cornhill, I mean.
Or any of them, I said. Stick it out for the year. I think you'll find it interesting, and not harmful. I meant the latter as a promise. I think he recognized it as such.
I shall, he said with a smile.
I put him on the spot. Are they afraid of me?
He hesitated. I was glad he was the type who thought things through. In effect, I had asked him to make a choice; perhaps he had intended to stay neutral. He had only to say, I don't know to remain neutral. Yes, he said. They are afraid of you. That's what it amounts to. Are you afraid of them?
Only of their stupidity.
Seemingly, I had made my peace with Cornhill, having exacted from them the special room. This was exactly what I wanted them to think. It hadn't been a token gesture. Though Bill Butterworth was the least of the masters, his room had been as good as the best, the headmaster would know that I appreciated it.
Our new room was in a stretch of continuous buildings that otherwise housed only senior masters and the headmaster. It was a one-story section with high-raftered ceilings. As I moved my clothes into the spacious closet I noticed with interest not only that there was a trap door leading to the attic, but that there was a built-in iron ladder giving easy access to this trap door. More of this later.
The day following our move into the new room, I returned to classes and applied myself to my studies, to the obvious relief of most of the masters.
On Saturday, I went alone into Waterbury, a dingy industrial city of which most of Connecticut seems ashamed. Factories, tenements and commercial buildings clung to the slope that rose steeply from a narrow valley; they were so ugly they were picturesque. In a directory I had spotted what seemed like a halfhearted advertisement for a private detective. A hunch made me follow it up.
The private detective proved to be exactly what I needed, and I recognized this at once. He was, by belief and vocation, a painter still in search of the perfect means of expression. Though I was taken with what he was willing to show me of his work, he deprecated the paintings as painfully far from what he would be willing to have the public view. He was nearly thirty. I found it commendable that he was in no rush to reach the public.
As for the private detective end of it, he was the son of a man who had risen high in the Pinkerton Agency. He had assimilated a thorough knowledge of some of the darker workings of the agency and meant to use the talents acquired only enough to provide a marginal living for himself, thereby leaving as much time as possible to find what he was seeking in art. He was, by the way, an abstract expressionist.
He lived modestly and seemed content. After talking with him only ten minutes I resolved to put him on a large enough retainer so that he'd never have to work for others. I was aware from the beginning that I had put him in possession of information he could use to blackmail me, but I was certain I could trust him not to try it, that he'd recognize I wasn't the sort of person who could be blackmailed with impunity.
What would be your attitude if I were to request you to commit an illegal act? I asked.
He was thoughtful for a moment. This was good. I tend to distrust glib men. I would
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