A boarding student of seventeen or eighteen, about the same age as Yukie, is waiting in the corner of the parlor. His large head is close-cropped, so close that its shiny surface is visible, and a stout nose, the size of a dumpling, dominates the center of his face. His defining feature, though, is his oversized skull. Even close-cropped, it seems remarkably large. Should he ever grow out his hair, as the master does, it's proportions would stand out even more. The master has long believed that its just such features and faces that defy scholarship. He may in fact be on to something, but at first glance, at least, this oversized head conjures up visons of grandeur, along the lines of a Napoleon or such. His attire, typical of boarding students, consists of a lined kimono, cut short in the sleeves in keeping with current style, and sewn from some form of splash-patterned plain weave fabric, perhaps in the Satusma style, or perhaps in the Kurume or Iyo styles. Who can tell. Under this lined kimono, it seems he's donned neither shirt nor undergarment. They say a single lined kimono and bare feet are trendy these days, but not so on this fellow. He personifies filth and grime. Owing to his bare and dusty feet, three clear prints adorn the tatami, as when that burglar stole cross this very same room. He's seated himself on print number four, bolt upright and struggling mightily to hold himself still. Waiting quietly, in a situation that calls for quiet waiting, should hardly be noteworthy, yet there's something terribly incongruous in this rambunctious young man, with his close-cropped head and awkward attire, surrendering himself to the dictates of formality. For him and his ilk, who when passing their teachers in the street pride themselves on displaying no deference, thirty minutes of respectful stillness is sheer agony. That being said, there he sits, acting the part of the humble gentleman or virtuous nobleman. To the casual observer, despite his internal suffering and duress, the scene comes across as highly comical. To think that this young urchin, so boisterous in the classroom and raucous on the playground, has for whatever reason been forced now to restrain himself, is both heart-rending and at the same time amusing. The master, however witless he may be, when thus paired one-on-one with a student, assumes due weight of authority. He beams with satisfaction. They say that dust piles into mountains. Likewise, the massing of single students is a force to be reckoned with, capable of ousting educators or boycotting classes. This is no different than a coward emboldened by drink. In the safety of numbers, intoxicated by the fellowship of kindred human spirits, these students stand ready to cast aside all semblances of sobriety at the drop of a hat. How else could it be that this fellow here now, humbled to the point of dejection, shrinking against the wall in his shabby kimono, could so disdain the master, who however decrepit is still his instructor? How else could said fellow be so emboldened as to mock the master routinely?