Part 8 (2/2)

I could see he meant it, too, for his eyes were s.h.i.+ny and the little drops came out on his forehead.

'I don't happen to know anybody fitter than old Miles to inspire a scholar and a gentleman. So, if the summer doesn't do you any good, it can't do you any harm. I shall label your season's work ”Richard Bonniwell, Jr. on His Own Hook. Exhibit A.”--Don't forget that. Your mother and I may seem to be in Maine, but I guess in our minds we'll be down at Jericho schoolhouse looking on, most of the time.'

You 'd think a man might buck up in response to that, wouldn't you? But I didn't particularly. It made me feel superior toward dad because he didn't know any better than to arrange such a summer, thinking it would teach me anything. I suspected this indulgent att.i.tude of mine might break down later, and it did.

It was a blazing hot summer for one thing. One of those occasional summers of the Middle West when the cattle pant in the fields and the blades of corn get limp on their stalks.

Mr. Miles, who was a benign bachelor, lived in a brick farmhouse with one long wing, and a furnace of which he was very proud. He put up his own ice, too, which was more to the point in July. His widowed sister kept house for him, and, if the meat was usually tough, the cream and vegetables were beyond praise. He owned the store at Garibaldi as well as this large farm; so he was a man of means, and important in his own sphere. To look at, he was rather wonderful. I don't know how to describe him. He had keen, kind blue eyes; wavy, white hair; strong, regular features. There was a kind of graciousness and distinction about him that didn't fit his speech and dress. It was as if you always saw the man he might be in the shadow of the man he was. Put him into evening clothes and take away his vernacular, and he'd be one of the loveliest old patriarchs you ever met.

The schoolhouse was brick, too; set back from the road in a field of hard-trodden clay, decorated with moth-eaten patches of gra.s.s. For further adornment, there was a row of box-alders out in front. As a temple of learning, it fell short. As its ministrant, I did the same.

There were forty scholars: squirmy, grimy little things that I found it hard to tell apart at first. I knew this was not the right att.i.tude, but how could I help it? I had never tried to teach anybody anything before in my life. The bigger girls blushed and giggled; the little boys made faces and stuck out their tongues. As it was a summer session, there were no big boys to speak of.

To go in for scholars.h.i.+p does not at all imply the teacher's gift or the desire for it. At Oxford, you know, they are a bit sniffy about the lecturers who arouse enthusiasm. Such are suspected of being 'popular,'

and that, really, is quite awful. Some of our men have a similar notion, and, no doubt, it colored my views. Yet, deep down, I knew that if I was a teacher, it was up to me to teach. I really did try, but it takes time to get the hang of anything.

I was homesick, too. Mildred and Millicent, my kid sisters, are great fun, and the house is full of young people all summer long at home. When I shut my eyes I could see the blue, sparkling waters of the inlet, and the rocking of our float with its line of gay canoes.

How can I describe the rising tide of sick disgust at my surroundings that began to flood my spirit? Now that it's all in the past, I'd like to think it was purely my liver,--I didn't get enough exercise, really I didn't, for it was too hot to walk much,--but perhaps part of it was just bad temper.

You see, it takes a good deal of a fellow to stand such a complete transplanting. I hated the paper shades in my bedroom, tied up with a cord, and the Nottingham curtains, and the springs that sank in the middle. I hated the respectable Brussels carpet in the best room, and the red rocking-chairs on the porch. I hated the hot, sleepless nights and the blazing, drowsy days.

Oh, I tell you, I had a glorious grouch!

I didn't exactly hate the squirming children, for some of them began to show signs of almost human intelligence after they got used to me, and that did win me; but I hated that little schoolroom where the flies buzzed loudly all day long on the streaky panes. With deadly hatred I hated it.

I got to feeling very badly treated. What did my father suppose such commonplace discomforts were going to do for _me_? What part had a summer like this in the life and work that were to be mine? I lost that comfortable little feeling of advantage over life. I mislaid my consciousness of the silver spoon. In about three weeks it seemed as if I'd always taught summer-school at Jericho, and might have to keep on.

Oh, well!--I was hot and sore. Everybody has been hot and sore some time or other, I suppose. The minute description can be omitted. But I don't know whether everybody with a grievance gets so badly twisted up in it as I do.

These emotions reached their climax one muggy, sultry July day as I plodded, moist and unhappy, back from the schoolhouse. I wiped my forehead, gritted my teeth, and vowed I would not stand the whole situation another twenty-four hours. I'd resign my position, wire dad, and take a train for somewhere out West in the mountains. If I had to make good on my own hook in three months, I'd at least do it in a cool place, at work of my selecting. The challenged party ought to have the choice of weapons.

My room was intolerably stuffy, so I came downstairs reluctantly and sat on the front steps. There was a wide outlook, for the house stood on a ridge of land that broke the flat prairie like a great welt. Old Miles was there, watching a heavy cloud-bank off in the southwest. Those clouds had been fooling around every evening for a week, but nothing ever came of it. The longer the drought, the harder it is to break.

I made some caustic remark about the weather as I sat down. Probably I looked cross enough to bite the poker.

Miles looked at me and then looked away quickly, as if it really was not decent to be observing a fellow in such a rage. I knew the look, for I've felt that way myself about other men.

'Yes, bad weather,' he said. 'When it gets too hot and dry for corn, it's too hot and dry for folks. And then--it always rains. It'll rain to-night. You wait and see.'

I mumbled something disparaging to the universe.

'Richard!' said Mr. Miles suddenly and strongly, 'I know what ails you.

It ain't the weather, it's your teaching. You're discouraged because you can't make 'em sense things. But it ain't time yet for you to get discouraged. I hate to see it, for it ain't necessary.'

This made me feel a little ashamed of myself.

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