He lay still a long time, enduring--
all he could manage at first. It might have been an hour later
that he got up and went to his desk and sat down in the fading
light, his hands deep in his trousers pockets; his athletic young
figure dropped together listlessly; his eyes staring at the desk
where had worked away so many cheerful hours. Pictures hung
around it; there was a group taken last summer of girls and boys
at his home in the country, the girl was in it--he did not look
at her. His father's portrait stood on the desk, and a painting
of his long-dead mother. He thought to himself hotly that it was
good she was dead rather than see him shamed. For the wound was
throbbing with a fever, and the boy had not got to a sense of
proportion; his future seemed blackened. His father's picture
stabbed him; he was a "Bones" man--all of his family--his
grandfather, and the older brothers who had graduated four and
six years ago--all of them. Except himself. The girl had thought
it such a disgrace that she would not look at him! Then he grew
angry. It wasn't decent, to hit a man when he was down. A woman
ought to be gentle--if his mother had been alive--but then he
was glad she wasn't. With that a sob shook him--startled him.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25