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"Not very strong?" I ventured.

"Oh, healthy enough, but what his father calls 'over-engined for his beam.' He's a queer boy. Simply won't go to school."

"Refuses?" I asked, between admiration of such stoutness and dismay at such defiance. This must either be a young gentleman of remarkable character or else a spoilt brat with whom no one could do anything.

It began to look as though my new job might be no sinecure.

"No, he doesn't refuse. He comes back. Gives it a fair trial and then comes home again."

Runs away from school, in short, thought I. Character again? Or incorrigible disobedience? Or was this one of those examples of the freak education by cranky parents, which is not education at all? No repressions; no coercion; no interference; no--anything. So that, instead of the child growing as some sort of flower, plant, shrub or tree in the Garden of Life, the result is a poor and worthless weed. But obviously there was nothing of the freak, the crank, the doctrinaire fanatic about this particular parent.