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 "Yes, and you'd be playing football to-day, too. You know, Kemble, I told you when you first came that I meant to teach you English. Remember? I might have turned you down, and with good reason, in which case you wouldn't be here to-day. But I stretched a point and passed you, giving you fair warning, though, that I meant to ride you hard, my boy. You can't truthfully say that I didn't warn you of what was coming to you, can you?"

"No, sir, I understood. And I started out all right, too, didn't I, Mr. Wyatt? Wasn't I doing pretty well until—until just lately?"

"You've never done 'pretty well,' Kemble, but you did show me for a while that you were trying, and as long as I knew that I didn't turn the screws. But about two weeks ago you stopped trying. I warned you several times, but you appeared to think I didn't mean it."

"I got sort of busy about football, Mr. Wyatt. They made me captain of the Scrub, and there was a good deal to—think about, and—"

"Yes, I know all that. Football is a fine game, Kemble, and I've never said a word against it. But football isn't what you came here for. At least, I hope it isn't. In any case, it isn't what your parents sent you to Wyndham to learn, and the sooner you realize that the better for you. I'll give you until Monday on that examination, but you must be prepared then. Come to me here at seven Monday evening, and I'll hear you."