a mind like a steel trap
He stood there on his raised platform with his cold imperious eyes upon us, his students, and our latest exam results typed on a page held in his hand.
Mr. Moncton-Davis, Esq. Lecturer. Englishman. Tall and thin and expensively dressed, even to the waistcoat in summer. Oxford Blue. Cricketer.
‘You sorry collection of amorphous, atrophied minds!’ He said, to us.
‘You unobliging cretins, who let knowledge enter by one ear then allow it to exit from the other without even noticing its passing.’
A breath. A touch to his delicately waved dark hair.
‘It was observed of me, when as a small child, that I had the mind of a steel trap.’
Moncton paused after this weighty revelation and the class remained silent, until, from the back row of desks, and surely the result of a ventriloquist’s skill came the measured response.
‘And you’ve got a face like it was caught in one.’