Horrible Horace and the Slug

by Gerrard Wllson

he got there, he gulped hard as the ancient old teacher swung his cane through the air for the last time before he used it for real.

  Gloating, enjoying the moment, Mr Lowe said, "To show you how fair I am, I will give you a choice."

  "A choice?" Horrible Horace asked, confused.

  "Yes," he replied. "You can have six of the best on your bottom or ten of the best on your hands, the choice is yours."

  "Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place!" Horrible Horace grumbled under his breath. As far as he was concerned, that was the worst choice ever offered to him. Then he had an idea, a brainwave. His grey matter working fast and furious, he said, "Double or nothing?"

  Eying him quizzically, the old man asked, "Double or nothing?"

  "Yes," he replied, "Ask me one more question, and if I answer it incorrectly you can give me twelve of the best on my bottom or twenty of the best on my hands!"

  The children gasped like never before when they heard this, afraid that his bottom (or his hands) might be caned out of existence.

  His eyes narrowing, the wily old man asked, "What's in it for you?"

  "Apart from not receiving a caning, nothing except..."

  "His eyes narrowing even more, the old man said, "Except for what?"

  "Except for a forfeit."

  "Forfeit? What are you talking about?"

  "If I happen to answer your fourth question correctly, you will have to carry out a forfeit of my choosing."

  Feeling he was on a roll - for what hope had the boy of winning against him? - Mr Lowe agreed to the double or nothing suggestion - and its condition. "All right," he said, rubbing his elongated jaw as was his custom when excited, "I agree. It is double of nothing. Now what shall I ask you?" he said, pondering what it might be.

  "Sir!" said Barmy Bernard, raising his hand, energetically waving about, trying to attract the old man's attention.

  The rest of the children (except for Tinkering Tommy and Horrible Horace, that is), on seeing this, thought the Barmy pupil had gone totally crackers, to be attracting the crazy-mad teacher's attention, so. Barmy Bernard, however, persisted, calling and waving his hand, until Mr Lowe deemed fit to ask what he wanted.

  "Yes, what is it, boy!" the old teacher snapped. "Can you not see that I am a busy man?"

  Having attracted his attention, Barmy Bernard's efforts, losing their head of steam, foundered. Intervening, distracting the old man's attention from his Barmy friend, Tinkering Tommy called out to the teacher, saying, "Sir, do you want to know what I think?"

  Turning to Tinkering Tommy, Mr Lowe barked, "Yes, what is it? It seems there are more children calling me than I have had hot dinner, today."

  The children laughed at this peculiar remark.

  His friends having distracted Mr Lowe's attention, Horrible Horace was free for action. Grabbing hold of his satchel parked under his desk, he opened it and searched through it. "Ah, got it!" he chirped, locating the slug therein. "I was keeping you for Miss Battle-Scars," he said, talking to the creature as if it understood every word he was saying, "to play a little prank on her. However, something more important has come up. I hope you understand, later." Returning the slug to his satchel, Horrible Horace slung it over his shoulder.

  Mr Lowe, smelling a rat, scolded the two boys, "You will both stay after school, writing one million times, 'I will not distract Mr Lowe when he has other, more important things to attend to'. Is that clear?" he asked.

  The two boys nodded a yes.

  "Good," he replied, returning his attention to Horrible Horace. Without even noticing the satchel hanging from the boy's shoulder, he said, "Now where was I?"

  "You were trying to decide what question to ask Horrible Horace," said Lousy Linda, from her desk in the middle of the classroom.

  Eyeballing the mouthy girl, Mr Lowe said, "How dare you talk to me, so, without putting your hand up, first. You will also stay after school, writing one million times, 'I will always put my hand up before speaking, and only then on behest from the teacher, Mr Lowe'. His eyes scanning the classroom, he asked, "Is there anyone else who wants to say something?"

  Vomituos Veronica, finding the tension all too much, began retching. Seeing this, Mr Lowe said, "And you will also stay after school, writing - oh never mind, get her out of here. I can smell it already!"

  The Fourth Question

  My fourth and last question," Mr Low said to Horrible Horace, "the mother of all questions is..."

  There were no gasps, sighs, questions or comments from any of the children listening; engrossed by the battle of knowledge - and wits - they remained silent.

  Horrible Horace, his hands behind his back, concealing the ever so fat slug, waited to hear the mother of all questions.

  Continuing, the old man said, "Australia is about as far away from the British Isles as it is possible to get, apart from New Zealand that is. It has many unique species of flora and fauna. Can you tell me, Master Horace, the name of the animal, now extinct-"

  "Quite a few species of animal have become since Europeans arrived!" Horrible Horace said, butting in.

  Lifting a bony old finger, Mr Lowe said, "If you will allow me to continue?"

  "Yes, go on," Horrible Horace replied, biting his tongue at losing his cool so easily.

  "As I was saying," he continued, "can you tell me which animal, now extinct, the last specimen of which died at a zoo, in Melbourne, in 1933?"

  "That was an awfully long time ago," one of the children, whispered.

  Another child said, "That's almost as far back as the days of the dinosaurs.

  A third child said, "Don't be so dopey, dinosaurs died out sixty-five million years ago!"

  "If you don't stop talking, all three of you," Mr Lowe warned, hurling three pieces of chalk at the talkative children, "you will each have to say after school, writing sixty-five million times 'I will keep my opinions to myself', do I make myself clear?"

  The three errant children nodded a contrite yes.

  "Right, now that that has been sorted," said the old man, returning his attention to Horrible Horace, "I think it's about time you answered my question."

  Fidgeting with his fingers, coughing, clearing his throat, trying to settle his hair that all too often (it being red and all that) had a mind of its own, Horrible Horace seemed to be stalling.

  "He doesn't know the answer," Mr Lowe thought excitedly. "I have him, I have him!"

  The Horrible pupil, however, suddenly began talking. The words coming fast and furious, he said, "Mr Lowe, for long time I have listened to you speak, suffering your ranting and raving, about your time during the war, fighting the Japanese, in Burma."

  The children did not gasp when they heard him say this; they were too shocked to do anything but listen.

  Mr Lowe, also shocked by what he was hearing, said nothing.

  "I hope that what I am about to say," Horrible Horace continued, "sinks into your brain, that after I have said it, you will have learned to appreciate that others can, and oftentimes do, know as much if not more than you!"

  At first, Mr Lowe showed no signs of any reaction, any emotion at all. He gave no clue, no hint whatsoever as to whether he had taken on board - or not - what the Horrible pupil had dared say.

  While they were waiting to see how he reacted, every child it that classroom listened, wondering what was about to come next. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds slowly away.

  The Answer to Your Question is...

  "Hmm," fine words, Master Horace," said the old teacher. "From someone who makes a habit - and all too often - of talking."

  Gasps, the children gasped when they heard him say this.

  Mr Lowe continued speaking, he said, "Talking the talk - isn't that what they call it, nowadays, those who talk, but fail - and quite miserably so - to produce the goods, walking the walk as it were? You have said that others know more than I do?" he asked, pointing to his chest. "You should - all of you should know more than I do, considering the time we t
eachers have spent drumming our life's leanings into you!" Grabbing hold of his geography book, he slammed a fist hard into it, to emphasise the point.

  There was an uneasy pause, not a child uttered a word, not even Horrible Horace.

  "Hmm," said Mr Lowe, his eyes scanning the classroom and the silent children therein. "The Japanese were never so quiet." Tearing into the Horrible pupil, he said, "You haven't even answered my question! But, then, how could you when you don't know the answer?"

  "The answer," said the Horrible pupil, speaking calm and surprisingly collected, "to your silly little question, that would hardly test the IQ of a chipmunk, is Tasmanian Tiger."

  There were no gasps of surprise, wonder or excitement from the listening children; they were far too engrossed, watching, waiting to see what Mr Lowe said (or did) next.

  He said nothing; the wrinkly old teacher said absolutely nothing, staring unblinkingly into the eyes of his Horrible nemesis.

  "Forfeit," a brave child somewhere to the rear of the room, said.

  "Yes, a forfeit," said another child, this one a bit closer.

  "A whopping great forfeit!" said a third child, a boy, to the front of the classroom.

  "Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit," all of the children chanted, feeling braver by the second, "forfeit, forfeit, forfeit."

  This was how the old teacher, Mr Lowe, got his comeuppance, the man who had lied to Horrible Horace, saying his answer was incorrect, and who had ever so cruelly caned him for it.

  Although Mr Lowe had no idea what kind of a forfeit it was going to be, he had agreed - and in front of the whole class - to do it, if Horrible Horace