Excerpt from Henry Worthington: Idealist

The young professor walked swiftly down the corridor and unlocked the door of Lecture Room A. A stream of students was pouring down the staircase at the left. A group near by, standing with books under their arms, and their hands in their pockets, eyed with good-humoured curiosity the new instructor as he fumbled nervously at the lock. Inside the room he drew a sigh of relief. He threw open a window, and began to pace the floor, in the narrow passageway between the rows of desks.

The second bell would ring in five minutes. Then those eager-faced boys would come in, singly, or in twos and threes, with their stylographic pens and their note-books. Those note-books were the worst feature of all. He had nothing to say, nothing. Every idea had left him. He could think only of the line: -

"The hungry sheep look up and are not fed."

He paused, one foot on the platform, vainly chasing back in his memory a rapidly fleeing phantom of his first sentence.

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