Sinopsis

First of all there is the Heaster of Fiction. He is invariably called "The Doctor," and he wears cap and gown even when birching malefactors— which he does intermittently throughout the day—or attending a cricket match. For all we know he wears them in bed. He speaks a language peculiar to himself—a language which at once enables you to recognise him as a Heaster; just as you may recognise a stage Irishman from the fact that he says "Begorrah!", or a stage sailor from the fact that he has to take constant precautions with his tros. Thus, the "Doctor" invariably addresses his cowering pupils as "Boys!"—a form of address which in reality only survives nowadays in places where you are invited to "have another with me"—and if no audience of boys is available at the moment, he addresses a single boy as if he were a whole audience. To influential parents he is servile and oleaginous, and he treats his staff with fatuous pomposity. Such a being may have existed—may exist—but we have never met him. What of the Heaster of Fact? To condense him into a type is one of the most difficult things in the world, for this reason. Most of us have known only one Heas...