"Colley, sir."
"Very well, Colley, you have a hundred lines."
No trouble at all after that. He had won his first round.
And years later, when Colley was an alderman of the City of London and a baronet and various other things, he sent his son (also red-haired) to Brookfield, and Chips would say: "Colley, your father was the first boy I ever punished when I came here twenty-five years ago. He deserved it then, and you deserve it now." How they all laughed; and how Sir Richard laughed when his son wrote home the story in next Sunday's letter!
And again, years after that, many years after that, there was an even better joke. For another Colley had just arrived—son of the Colley who was a son of the first Colley. And Chips would say, punctuating his remarks with that little "umph-um" that had by then become a habit with him: "Colley, you are—umph—a splendid example of—umph —inherited traditions. I remember your grandfather—umph —he could never grasp the Ablative Absolute. A stupid fellow, your grandfather. And your father, too—umph—I remember him— he used to sit at that far desk by the wall—he wasn't much better, either. But I do believe—my dear Colley—that you are— umph—the biggest fool of the lot!" Roars of laughter.
A great joke, this growing old—but a sad joke, too, in a way. And as Chips sat by his fire with autumn gales rattling the windows, the waves of humor and sadness swept over him very often until tears fell, so that when Mrs. Wickett came in with his cup of tea she did not know whether he had been laughing or crying. And neither did Chips himself.
┗(•ˇ_ˇ•)―→(☞ ಠ_ಠ)☞(☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞☞￣ᴥ￣☞⟵(๑¯◡¯๑)→_→←_←⟵(o_O)⟵(๑¯◡¯๑)ԅ( ͒ ͒ )ᕤ☜ (↼_↼)｡.ﾟ+ ⟵(｡･ω･)〈(•ˇ‿ˇ•)-→(?・・)σ(☉｡☉)!→(ﾉﾟ0ﾟ)ﾉ→(´⊙ω⊙`)→(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(*❛‿❛)→´◔‿ゝ◔`)━☞( ՞ਊ ՞）→( ･ω･)☞(*❛‿❛)→╰( ･ ᗜ ･ )➝(✧Д✧)→(｡◕‿◕｡)➜<(￣︶￣)↗*･゜ﾟ(^O^)↝:-):^)^_^(^^):,-)8-);)o:-):-*}:‑););-):‑X:-P:-!:-$:‑X:-|:-\:-[:-(:'((TT)\=_\=>.<(+_+):0O_o:-O\=-O:0*\0/*
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