At the end of a fortnight Clint had, so to speak, become a regular
student of Brimfield Academy in good standing
At the end of a fortnight Clint had, so to speak, become a regular
student of Brimfield Academy in good standing. That is, he had learned
the manners and customs and the language, for Brimfield, like every
similar institution, had its own ways and its own speech. Clint no
longer said “Hello!” or “How do you do?” on meeting an acquaintance. He
said “Hi!” and threw his head back with a little jerk. He bought a
diminutive grey cap with a small visor and wore it so far on the back of
his head that it was not discernible from the front. (If you belonged on
one of the teams you wore your insignia in maroon above the visor, or,
if you had won two “B’s,” you wore a maroon cap instead and the insignia
was in grey. But Clint hadn’t come to that yet.) He offhandedly referred
to the Principal as “Josh,” to the instructors as “Horace” or “Uncle
Sim” or “Jordy,” as the case might be. He knew that a Hall Master was an
“H.M.”; that he and one hundred and seventy-one other youths were, in
common parlance, “Brims”; that a “Silk Sock” was a student of Claflin
School, Brimfield’s athletic rival; that Wendell Hall was “Wen”;
Torrence, “T”; Hensey, “Hen” or “The Coop,” and Billings, “Bill.” Also
that an easy course, such as Bible History, was a “doze”; that to study
was to “stuff”–one who made a specialty of it being, consequently, a
“stuffer”; that a boy who prided himself on athletic prowess was a
“Greek”; that a recitation was a “recit”; that the recitation rooms were
“cells,” and many other important things.
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