The country is India. A large dinner party is being given in an up-country station by ac olonial official and his wife. The guests are army and government officers and their wives, and an American naturalist.

At one side of the long table, a spirited discussion springs up between a young girl and an army officer. The girl insists women have long outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-a-mouse era, and that they are not as anxious as their grandmothers were. The officer says they are, arguing women haven't the actual nerve control of men.

“A woman's reaction in any crisis,” the officer says, “is to scream. And while a man may feel like it, he has that ounce more of control than a woman has. ”

The American scientist does not join in the argument but sits and watches the faces of the other guests. As he stares, he sees a slight, though strange look of anxiety come over the face of the hostess. With a small gesture she summons the servant standing behind her chair. She whispers to him. The servant's eyes widen. He turns quickly and leaves the room. No one else sees this, nor the servant when he puts a bowl of milk on the balcony outside the glass doors.

The American understands. In India, milk in a bowl means only one thing. It is bait fora snake. He realizes there is a cobra in the room. The American's eyes move across the room but he sees nothing. He realizes the snake can only be in one place - under the table.

His first reaction is to jump back and warn the others. But he knows any sudden movement will frighten the cobra and it will strike. He speaks quickly, the quality of his voice so arresting that it quietens everyone. “I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I will count three hundred - that's five minutes - and not one of you is to move a single muscle. Now! Ready!”

The 20 people sit like stone images while he counts. He is saying “…two hundred and eighty…”. when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the snake emerge and make for the bowl of milk. Four or five screams ring out as he jumps to slam shut the balcony doors.

“There is your proof!” the host says. “A man has just shown us real control.”

“Just a minute,” the American says, turning to his hostess, “How did you know that cobra was in the room?”

A faint smile comes across the woman's face as she replies. “Because it was lying across my foot.”

I don’t remember the exact date I met Marty for the first time. Like a lot of people who want to get through a checkout line, I found my thoughts on speed, nothing more. The line I was standing in wasn’t moving as quickly as I wanted, and I glanced toward the cashier, who was receiving money from customers.

He was an old man in his sixties. I thought, well, it probably took him a little longer to get the jobs done. For the next few minutes I watched him. He greeted every customer before he began scanning the goods they were purchasing. Sure, his words were the usual, “How’s it going?” But he did something different—he actually listened to people. Then he would respond to what they had said and talk with them briefly.

I thought it was strange, but I guessed I had grown accustomed to people asking me how I was doing simply out of a conversation without thinking. Usually, after a while, you don’t give any thought to the question and just say something back quietly.

This old cashier seemed sincere about wanting to know how people were feeling. Meanwhile, the high-tech cash register rang up their purchases and he announced what they owed. When customers handed money to him, he pushed the appropriate keys, the cash drawer popped open, and he counted out their change.

Then magic happened.

He placed the change in his left hand, walked around the counter to the customers, and extended his right hand in an act of friendship. As their hands met, the old cashier looked the customers in the eyes. “I want to thank you for shopping here today,” he told them. “You have a great day. Bye-bye.” The looks on the faces of the customers were priceless.

Now it was my turn. I glanced down at the name tag on his red waistcoat, the kind experienced Wal-Mart cashier wore. It read, “Marty.”

Marty told me how much I owed and I handed him some money. The next thing I knew he was standing beside me, offering his right hand and holding my change in his left hand. His kind eyes locked onto mine. Smiling, and with a firm handshake…

My teacher，Mr.August J.Bachmann，was the most influential teacher I ever had.

I had gotten into trouble in his class:Another student had pushed me for fun，and I became angry and began to hit him.Mr.Bachmann stopped the fight，but instead of sending me to the office，he sat me down and asked a simple question，“Penna，why are you wasting your life？Why aren't you going to college？”

I didn't know anything about colleges or scholarships.No one had ever considered that a fatherless boy from the poorest neighborhood had a future.That day，instead of rushing off for lunch，he stayed and explained possible education options to me.At the end of our talk，he sent me to see a secretary who had a child at a state college.This was in 1962 at Emerson High School in Union City，New Jersey.

Well，55 years have passed，and what have I done with the knowledge he gave me？I gained a PhD from Fordham University when I was only 29.I taught English and social studies and then moved up the chain of command from teacher to principal(校长).

I've sat on the board for Magnet Schools of America and represented that organization at the United Nations.I've won a number of great educational awards.But where would I be if a truly caring teacher had not taken the time out of his lunch period to speak to me？It was without question only his confidence in me that helped me forward.

I have repaid his kindness hundreds of times by encouraging misguided youngsters to aim higher.If I have saved any children，it is because of him.If I have been a successful educator，it is because I had a great role model in Mr.Bachmann.