you’ll excuse me.”
Angus paused and looked to the ground as if deciding how to proceed. Then, he looked out the window with a distant look in his eyes. “Montebello,” he said in a voice so low I barely heard it.
“What did you say?” Dean Rumplun spat. His face turned the colour of rust, and his jowls vibrated. I wondered what an aneurism looked like.
“You heard me. You’ve left me no choice,” said Angus. His eyes were two slits trained on his adversary.
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Just sign the faculty-transfer form, and you’ll never have to find out.”
For what seemed like minutes, they stared each other down through tension so thick it would have snapped the knife.
“You are a bastard, McLintock. And after all I’ve done for you. Who got you your appointment in the first place? It was me!” Rumplun shouted.
“It was I,” whispered Angus as he smoothed a wrinkle in his pants.
“What!”
“A copular verb takes a subjective completion. It was
I
, not it was
me
. You might want to audit Daniel’s course.” Angus rose, and I followed suit, in awe of the master.
“Get out this instant before I phone security. Calling you a bastard is a high compliment you’re unworthy of.”
“Of which you’re unworthy. All right, all right, we’re goin’, we’re goin’. A pleasure as always, hemorr-Roland,” Angus soothed over his shoulder as we hustled out just ahead of the slamming door.
The campus looked beautiful in the dappled light of a second consecutive sunny day. Angus said nothing as we left the building but whistled as we walked. I think the tune was “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” but, then again, it might have been “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Music was not his gift.
The suspense was killing me. “Okay, spill the goods on Montebello,” I implored. He was silent for a moment, pondering, which I much preferred over his atonal whistling.
“It’s a private and delicate matter involvin’ documented academic dishonesty at a major scientific conference at Montebello. Discretion prevents me from identifyin’ the perpetrator, but his initials are Roland ‘the rumphole’ Rumplun.”
“You mean you caught him plagiarizing a scientific paper?”
“Worse. I caught him claimin’ credit for research he did not undertake, theories he did not conceive, and a paper he did not write,” Angus intoned.
“That is a serious accusation. Why didn’t you take it through the formal channels and have him drummed out of the university?” I asked.
“It wasn’t worth it to me then. Instead, I confronted him. He denied it until I showed him the evidence. He then broke down. At the time, I felt a pang of sympathy, so I pursued it no further. But I did keep the evidence. I dust it off every ten years or so when it’s important,” Angus replied.
“Like today, for instance,” I suggested.
“Aye, like today.”
“What arrogance,” I observed.
“Aye, he’s always suffered with a self-esteem problem,” Angus noted.
“Self-esteem problem?”
“Aye, he has too much,” Angus explained. We walked on in silence for a moment or two.
“So do you think he’s going to sign the form and let me take your class?”
“I have no doubt the deed was just done. The class is yours. All yours.”
Later that day, I received an e-mail from the Faculty of Engineering, confirming that I was, indeed, teaching English for Engineers. I thought I’d better check with Professor Gannon to make sure I wasn’t violating some obscure regulation by having an engineering course on my teaching schedule. When I reached him, he already knew about it, having received the faculty-transfer form from Rumplun’s office. Very efficient. The power of Montebello. There was no problem beyond a concern he expressed that I might be dulling my intellectual acuity by fraternizing with lower life forms. The arts-engineering enmity was not confined to the undergraduate population.
That evening, I drove back to the Riverfront
Angus paused and looked to the ground as if deciding how to proceed. Then, he looked out the window with a distant look in his eyes. “Montebello,” he said in a voice so low I barely heard it.
“What did you say?” Dean Rumplun spat. His face turned the colour of rust, and his jowls vibrated. I wondered what an aneurism looked like.
“You heard me. You’ve left me no choice,” said Angus. His eyes were two slits trained on his adversary.
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Just sign the faculty-transfer form, and you’ll never have to find out.”
For what seemed like minutes, they stared each other down through tension so thick it would have snapped the knife.
“You are a bastard, McLintock. And after all I’ve done for you. Who got you your appointment in the first place? It was me!” Rumplun shouted.
“It was I,” whispered Angus as he smoothed a wrinkle in his pants.
“What!”
“A copular verb takes a subjective completion. It was
I
, not it was
me
. You might want to audit Daniel’s course.” Angus rose, and I followed suit, in awe of the master.
“Get out this instant before I phone security. Calling you a bastard is a high compliment you’re unworthy of.”
“Of which you’re unworthy. All right, all right, we’re goin’, we’re goin’. A pleasure as always, hemorr-Roland,” Angus soothed over his shoulder as we hustled out just ahead of the slamming door.
The campus looked beautiful in the dappled light of a second consecutive sunny day. Angus said nothing as we left the building but whistled as we walked. I think the tune was “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” but, then again, it might have been “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Music was not his gift.
The suspense was killing me. “Okay, spill the goods on Montebello,” I implored. He was silent for a moment, pondering, which I much preferred over his atonal whistling.
“It’s a private and delicate matter involvin’ documented academic dishonesty at a major scientific conference at Montebello. Discretion prevents me from identifyin’ the perpetrator, but his initials are Roland ‘the rumphole’ Rumplun.”
“You mean you caught him plagiarizing a scientific paper?”
“Worse. I caught him claimin’ credit for research he did not undertake, theories he did not conceive, and a paper he did not write,” Angus intoned.
“That is a serious accusation. Why didn’t you take it through the formal channels and have him drummed out of the university?” I asked.
“It wasn’t worth it to me then. Instead, I confronted him. He denied it until I showed him the evidence. He then broke down. At the time, I felt a pang of sympathy, so I pursued it no further. But I did keep the evidence. I dust it off every ten years or so when it’s important,” Angus replied.
“Like today, for instance,” I suggested.
“Aye, like today.”
“What arrogance,” I observed.
“Aye, he’s always suffered with a self-esteem problem,” Angus noted.
“Self-esteem problem?”
“Aye, he has too much,” Angus explained. We walked on in silence for a moment or two.
“So do you think he’s going to sign the form and let me take your class?”
“I have no doubt the deed was just done. The class is yours. All yours.”
Later that day, I received an e-mail from the Faculty of Engineering, confirming that I was, indeed, teaching English for Engineers. I thought I’d better check with Professor Gannon to make sure I wasn’t violating some obscure regulation by having an engineering course on my teaching schedule. When I reached him, he already knew about it, having received the faculty-transfer form from Rumplun’s office. Very efficient. The power of Montebello. There was no problem beyond a concern he expressed that I might be dulling my intellectual acuity by fraternizing with lower life forms. The arts-engineering enmity was not confined to the undergraduate population.
That evening, I drove back to the Riverfront
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