sound like proper talk from a boy to his father; but I've got to say it
for once. I promise that I'll never speak so to you again, but I'm
going to get it out of my system this time. Since I can remember we
have been looking out for you. We have had to take care of you and
help you remember your meal times, and your rubbers, and your hat, and
overcoat and gloves and necktie. We have had to see that you went to
bed, and ate and got up and everything else. And all because of
books. It makes you sore at me because I hate them. I ought to hate
them! Your writing and reading and studying have been the curse of our
lives. I tell you, father, it has been just as bad as any other bad
habit or appetite. Why, when you are reading up for some article or
digging into some musty old work, you are dead to everything else. And
we have had to suffer for it. Do you think any other man you know
would have left those children a minute in a time like this?"

He paused and once more pressed a hand carefully on the red stain
across his fair hair.

"Oh, you must forgive me for talking so, dad, but I'm pretty sore.
Little Elinor --" He turned sharply, and hurried away to Ivan. The
three boys hurried down the steep stairs and disappeared. Professor
Morris for a moment, a long, dazed moment, stood looking blankly at the
dark doorway through which his son had disappeared. Then he sank
weakly down on a bench.

As a boy and as a man, he had been noted for his ability to memorize
remarks.

In college the worst of the lectures, no matter how dry, had been all
imprinted on his mind. Now as he sat thinking, he could fairly see his