College stories, American; Princeton (N.J.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Princeton University -- Fiction
Sometimes he realized that he was making a fool of himself and then he
used to take himself in hand for being so childish. But he had always
had these little boyish ways of thinking about the people and things
around him. He remembered how it was at college; when he first came as
a freshman his poor little brain was nearly worn out with wondering
and imagining, and when he fell to thinking of those days long ago, it
seemed impossible to him that he was a grown man now and teaching in
an academy. But it was true, and the framed diploma hung in his room.
And, what was more to the point, he was making money. He had felt
encouraged when he received his first earnings.
On a Saturday evening he had called around at the treasurer's office
and received his money, carefully counted and put in an envelope with
a blue lining. The treasurer was an old man with a hard face, and when
the little tutor came in he did not say "How do you do," or anything,
but simply turned toward the safe and took out the money, keeping the
pen in his teeth as he did so, and only taking it out to ask, as he
looked up at the little tutor, "That is right," in an exact tone, "is
it not?"
He hated this proceeding, and hoped that next time there would not be
the right amount, so that he might have a cheque. But he felt
light-hearted when he carried the money to his room and wrote his
letter home and enclosed a certain share of his profits. Prospects
seemed brighter and his hopes ran high, and his dreams ran away out
into the future when all his drudgery would be over and he would be
recognized as a great man, an authority on--but somehow it was hard to
hold those old aspirations that had seemed so realizable about
commencement time, when he was an honor man. This cold western climate
and these common-sense practical New Englanders seemed to have a
chilling effect upon his ambitions, especially as his self-confidence
was never very firmly rooted, for he was not, strangely enough for a
young man, very much of a believer in himself, and his conceit was not
spontaneous, but was of the bolstered-up kind, so that when he halted
in his castle-building he was in a very dangerous position, for, if
you take a young man's conceit away from him, is he _not_ in a very
dangerous position indeed?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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