CHAPTER III 
     
    
   
   
    
     THE MASTER OF LINDSAY SCHOOL 
     
    
   
   
    
     NE evening, a month later, Eric 
     
     0 Marshall came out of the old, 
     
     white—washed schoolhouse at 
     
     Lindsay, and locked the door—which was 
     
     carved over with initials innumerable, 
     
     and built of double plank in order that it 
     
     might withstand all the assaults and 
     
     batteries to which it might be subjected. 
     
     Eric’s pupils had gone home an hour 
     
     before, but he had stayed to solve some 
     
     algebra problems, and correct some Latin 
     
     exercises for his advanced students. 
     
    

    
     The sun was slanting in warm yellow 
     
     lines through the thick grove of maples 
     
     to the west of the building, and the dim 
     
     green air beneath them burst into golden 
     
     bloom. A couple of sheep were nibbling 
     
     the lush grass in a far corner of the play- 
     
     ground; a cow-bell, somewhere in the 
     
    
   
   
    
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