"Everything is so lovely now," explained the Idiot, "that I feel as
though I never wanted to leave the house again, even to win a fortune.
If we turn it into a college and instruct youth, we need never go
outside the front door excepting for pleasure."
"Where will the money and the instructors come from?" asked Mr.
Whitechoker.
"Money? From pupils; and after we get going maybe somebody will endow
us. As for instructors, I think we know enough to be instructors
ourselves," replied the Idiot. "For instance: Pedagog's University. John
Pedagog, President; Alonzo B. Whitechoker, Chaplain; Mrs.
Smithers-Pedagog, Matron. For Professor of Belles-lettres, the
Bibliomaniac, assisted by the Poet; Medical Lectures by Dr. Capsule;
Chemistry taught by our genial friend who occasionally imbibes; Chair in
General Information, your humble servant. Why, we would be overrun with
pupils and money in less than a year."
"A very good idea," returned Mr. Pedagog. "I have often thought that a
nice little school could be started here to advantage, though I must
confess that I had different ideas on the subject of the instructors.
You, my dear Idiot, would be a great deal more useful as a Professor
Emeritus."
"Hm!" said the Idiot. "It sounds mighty well--I've no doubt I should
like it. What is a Professor Emeritus, Mr. Pedagog?"
"He is a professor who is paid a salary for doing nothing."
The whole table joined in a laugh, the Idiot included.
"By Jove! Mr.
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