Horrible Horace forgot about the prank on Miss Battle-Scars. You see, he had a double geography lesson. Geography being his favourite subject, he did not intend to let anything distract him from it. During that lesson, however, playing a prank on Miss Battle-Scars was the last thing on his mind, but for an entirely different reason than liking it. You see, Miss Battle-Scars did not turn up to take it. Instead, she left the children in the 'capable' hands of Mr Lowe.
Mr Lowe was a retired teacher who helped whenever any of the regular teachers was off school, sick. He was thin, so thin the children could see his bones through his deathly pale skin. They thought his bones were trying to escape from his body. He was also old, bald - and eccentric. Mad would probably describe him better, because most of the time when he was standing in, teaching lessons, he just rambled on and on about his days in the army when had had been fighting the Japanese, in Burma. He was indeed quite mad.
"Open your books at page one hundred and forty-one," said Mr. Lowe. "Now who can tell me," he asked, "the capital city of Australia?" A dozen young hands shot up. Seeing the splendid response to his question, he said, "My, so many to choose from! Now who shall it be? Ah, yes, Marauding Mathew, you can tell me the answer."
"The capital city of Australia," Marauding Mathew said ever so confidently, "is Sydney."
His blood pressure rising, his face turning red, Mr Lowe said, "No, no, that is not the answer. Sit down before I throw the blackboard duster at you (he had recently learnt this means of getting the children's attention, courtesy of Miss Battle-Scars).
Marauding Mathew sat down with lightning fast speed.
The remaining hands, though still above their owners' heads, wavered.
"You," said Mr Lowe. "Vomituos Veronica, you can tell me the answer; if you really think you know it, that is."
The girl, a petit, blond headed child, said, "The capital city of Sydney is Australia."
"His blood pressure rising higher, his face turning a deeper shade of red, Mr Lowe roared, "No, No, No! How can a country be the capital of a city? Sit down; sit down stupid girl, before I throw the blackboard along with the duster at you!"
Vomituos Veronica, on hearing those words began crying inconsolably. Turning a ghastly shade of green, she began retching.
Get her out of this classroom," Mr Lowe bellowed, "before we are all knee-deep in vomit!"
When he had calmed down, his blood pressure returning to a semblance of normality, and his complexion a deathly pale hue once again, Mr Lowe asked for a show of hands, of all those children who still thought they knew the answer to his question. This time, however, he was not impressed, because only the one hand shot up.
"So, Master Horace," Mr Lowe said ever so slowly, "you think you know the answer to my question?"
Horrible Horace nodded his head.
"And plucky to boot," he said, poking a finger into his ear, to clear out some wax. The Japanese were plucky, and we all know the comeuppance they got."
Standing his ground, knowing that he had the right answer, Horrible Horace was itching to tell him, the crazy-mad teacher.
"All right, you can tell me," Mr Lowe finally said. "But if you are wrong, it's the cane for you, my boy. Is that agreed?"
On hearing this, the dreaded C word, every child in the classroom gasped, afraid for Horrible Horace and his bottom.
"Well?" asked the incredibly old teacher, who had, as if by magic, produced his cane. He began flexing and bending it ready for action.
Although he had the correct answer, Horrible Horace gulped hard when he saw this.
Mr Lowe knew exactly how to intimidate a child, when it so suited. "Well, boy?" he asked. "Or has the cat got your tongue?"
The children laughed nervously at this remark.
Not intending to let the old man tarnish his status amongst his fellow classmates, cutting straight to the point, Horrible Horace, said, "The capital city of Australia is Canberra!"
His eyes gleaming bright, bending his cane with rage, Mr Lowe said, "Wrong, wrong, wrong!"
"Wrong!" asked every child in the classroom.
"Wrong?" said Horrible Horace, puzzled by what he had just heard. "The capital city of Australia is Canberra," he insisted, "It says so, in my atlas!" he said, tapping the top of his desk. "I can take it out from my desk and show you!"
"You are wrong!" Mr Lowe insisted all the louder. "The capital city of Australia is Melbourne!"
"It might have been considered the capital one hundred and fifty years ago," he replied, "but not anymore! My answer is correct; it is you who are wrong!"
There, he had said it; Horrible Horace had told Mr Lowe that he was wrong. That was a mistake, a big mistake.
The children laughed quietly and ever so nervously at the Horrible pupil's assertion.
At first, the old teacher appeared remarkably calm after being told - and so abruptly - that he was wrong, but as the seconds ticked away, he flexed his cane more and more, more and more. The blood vessels in Mr Lowe's face got bigger and bigger and bigger, until he was a seething mass of pure anger, a cauldron, a red-faced cauldron hell-bent on revenge, on the pupil who had dared say he was wrong. "Come up to my desk!" he ordered.
Getting up from his seat Horrible Horace approached the teacher's desk.
Bend over," Mr Lowe ordered, swinging his cane in the air, for practice. "And take your punishment like a man."
Yet again, the children laughed nervously at this remark.
What chance has a child against a teacher fully intent on meeting out justice, no matter how misguided it happens to be? None, it has no chance at all. The crazy-mad teacher caned Horrible Horace that day. He caned him for giving the 'wrong' answer, for facing up to the old man, a teacher out of touch with modern work practices, and treatment of children in schools.
Although the ancient old teacher caned Horrible Horace, the boy was not out; Mr Lowe had not defeated him by any stretch of the imagination. Having accepted his punishment like a man, he intended to punish Mr Lowe in as good if not better a manner. "That rat bag," he grumbled, rubbing his sore bottom, "will get his comeuppance, or my name is not Horrible Horace!"
Geography is my Favourite Subject!
Next day, during the midmorning break, Barmy Bernard, Tinkering Tommy and Horrible Horace - the injured party - met in Tinkering Tommy's 'office' to the rear of the bicycle sheds. They had assembled there to concoct a plan, the mother of all comeuppances to inflict on the stand-in teacher, Mr Lowe.
"What did it feel like, getting the cane?" asked Barmy Bernard.
Giving his best friend a most peculiar look, Horrible Horace replied, "Like getting ran down by a bus, a bus that's on fire. My bottom is still burning from it."
"Can I have a look?" Barmy Bernard asked.
"No, no you cannot!" he snapped. "We are here to plan the old codger's comeuppance, not to look at my battle-scars!"
"Sorry," his Barmy friend replied, "got a bit carried away..."
"Have you still got that slug, Horrible?" asked Tinkering Tommy.
"Yes, it's in my satchel," he replied, patting his satchel. "I kept it alive overnight by feeding it dandelion leaves." Opening his satchel, he peered inside, and said, "It's getting a bit grubby in there, though. Why do you ask?"
"Come closer and I will explain. Walls can sometimes have ears..."
When Tinkering Tommy had finished telling Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard about his idea, he asked, "Well? What do you think?"
"I think it's barmy," said Barmy Bernard."
His face falling, Tinkering Tommy said, "You do?"
"Yes," he replied, smiling. "It's barmy - but great! When do we start?"
"Don't get carried away," warned Horrible Horace. "It was me who got caned. And it's me who will give him - the old buzzard - his rightful comeuppance."
After the midmorning break was over, the three friends, looking quite pleased with themselves, filed into class,
"What has you three so happy?" asked Lousy Linda. "We have geography, next."
"I like geography," said Horrible Horace. "It's my favourite subject."
"I know, I know," she snapped. Then she added, "You won't - all of you - be so smug when you hear who's taking it."
"No!" said Barmy Bernard.
"It can't be!" said Tinkering Tommy.
"Again?" asked Horrible Horace.
Nodding, Lousy Linda said, "The very teacher who caned you for giving him the wrong answer."
"I gave him the right answer!" Horrible Horace barked. "And well you know it!"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she replied, laughing, feeling smugger than the three boys had felt, seconds earlier.
Taking their seats, Horrible Horace, Barmy Bernard, Tinkering Tommy and the Lousy female pupil waited for Mr Lowe to enter the classroom. The door creaking slowly open, however, revealed someone entirely different. It was a small, rotund man, wearing a red coloured jacket, an even gaudier pair of orange coloured trousers, the biggest top hat they had ever seen and a long black cloak trailing behind him. "Good afternoon," he said, cheerfully. "And what a grand day it is." The children eyed him curiously. "Ah," he said, "I see that I have caught your attention. That's good, tremendously good," he continued, "because I have something so tell you..."
"What is it?" asked Tommy Tilbert, from the rear of the classroom.
Smiling sweetly, ever so sweetly, the man replied, "I have come here, to your school, to tell you that the circus is in town!"
"The circus?" asked Margaret King, from the left-hand side of the room.
"Are you the Ringmaster?" asked George Rupniak, sketching down what he was seeing into his exercise book.
Horrible Horace and the Slug Page 2
