And then the row with Ralston. Funny thing, Chips had never liked him; he was efficient, ruthless, ambitious, but not, somehow, very likable. He had, admittedly, raised the status of Brookfield as a school, and for the first time in memory there was a longish waiting list. Ralston was a live wire; a fine power transmitter, but you had to beware of him.
Chips had never bothered to beware of him; he was not attracted by the man, but he served him willingly enough and quite loyally. Or, rather, he served Brookfield. He knew that Ralston did not like him, either; but that didn't seem to matter. He felt himself sufficiently protected by age and seniority from the fate of other masters whom Ralston had failed to like.
Then suddenly, in 1908, when he had just turned sixty, came Ralston's urbane ultimatum. "Mr. Chipping, have you ever thought you would like to retire?"
Chips stared about him in that book-lined study, startled by the question, wondering why Ralston should have asked it. He said, at length: "No— umph—I can't say that—umph—I have thought much about it—umph—yet."
"Well, Mr. Chipping, the suggestion is there for you to consider. The Governors would, of course, agree to your being adequately pensioned."
Abruptly Chips flamed up. "But—umph—I don't want— to retire. I don't—umph—need to consider it."
"Nevertheless, I suggest that you do."
"But—umph—I don't see—why—I should!"
"In that case, things are going to be a little difficult."
"Difficult? Why—difficult?"
And then they set to, Ralston getting cooler and harder, Chips getting warmer and more passionate, till at last Ralston said, icily: "Since you force me to use plain words, Mr. Chipping, you shall have them. For some time past, you haven't been pulling your weight here. Your methods of teaching are slack and old-fashioned; your personal habits are slovenly; and you ignore my instructions in a way which, in a younger man, I should regard as rank insubordination. It won't do, Mr. Chipping, and you must ascribe it to my forbearance that I have put up with it so long."
"But—" Chips began, in sheer bewilderment; and then he took up isolated words out of that extraordinary indictment. "SLOVENLY—umph —you said—?"
"Yes, look at the gown you're wearing. I happen to know that that gown of yours is a subject of continual amusement throughout the School."
Chips knew it, too, but it had never seemed to him a very regrettable matter.
(─.─||）(^～^;)ゞ(￣ヘ￣;)(￣ヘ￣;)ԅ( ͒ ͒ )ᕤ←_←(☞ ಠ_ಠ)☞→(° °)┗ԅ( ͒ ͒ )ᕤ☜ (↼_↼)☜ (↼_↼)←(*꒪ヮ꒪*)(☞^o^) ☞(?・・)σ(?・・)σ(☞^o^) ☞(?・・)σ(☉｡☉)!→(ﾉﾟ0ﾟ)ﾉ→(☉｡☉)!→(ﾉﾟ0ﾟ)ﾉ→(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞´◔‿ゝ◔`)━☞(*❛‿❛)→( ･ω･)☞(*❛‿❛)→( ･ω･)☞(*❛‿❛)→(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞´◔‿ゝ◔`)━☞(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☉｡☉)!→(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☉｡☉)!→(?・・)σ(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞(?・・)σ(☉｡☉)!→
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