The instructors would not be in the staff room until the first hour bugle sounded. The principal took out his watch to confirm that we had plenty of time. He told me everything would be explained gradually in due course, but that first we should cover the fundamentals. He then proceeded with a lengthy lecture on the essence of education. I listened politely, of course, but half way through it struck me that I'd gotten myself into a preposterous situation. I could not possibly live up to the expectations he was laying out. Requiring a reckless scourge like me to serve as a role model for the students, to exemplify the virtues of the school, and to exert moral influence in addition to instruction was utterly unreasonable. Did he really imagine that such an outstanding gentleman would come this far into the sticks for a forty-yen-per-month salary? I believe people are all pretty much the same, and anyone is entitled to an occasional quarrel when provoked. Under these edicts I'd have to never open my mouth and never go out for a walk. They should have warned me beforehand that it was such a demanding post. I hate dishonesty, so I resolved to concede that I'd been lured here under false pretenses. I would turn down the post and head back home. After that five yen tip at the inn, I had nine yen or so left in my pocket. Nine yen would not cover a return trip to Tōkyō, and I now regretted the tip. But returning on nine yen was not out of the question, and I'd rather run out of money on the way home than lie to an employer. When I stated that I could not possibly meet his requirements and would therefore return his letter of appointment, the principal gazed at me with his tanuki eyes and the lids began to flutter. Then he smiled and said, "My speech just now describes an ideal, and I know that you can't match that ideal to perfection, so there's no need to worry." If he knew I couldn't match his ideal, then I wish he would have spared me all that discomfort and stress in the first place.