Cora Hastings, Nathan’s last teacher and the good woman, by the way, who did more than all others to encourage his literary fluency and poetical promise, took it upon her sparse, capable shoulders to wait upon the boy’s father and “speak him a piece of her mind.” “Don’t you know your boy has been the brightest English scholar in the whole eight grades?” she demanded scathingly. “Well,” retorted Johnathan, “just what is it your business” “I’ve been his teacher and I know what’s in him. Let alone to study and equip himself, Nathan will make his mark in the world. Take him from school now, and all you may have is a mere working man.” “I’m not ashamed of having him a working man. His folks were all working people. Look at me! No airs to us!” “Do you want your boy to turn out a fool?” “Better a working fool than an educated fool. But I’m not afraid of his bein’ a fool. Work never made a fool out of nobody.” “Don’t you want him to be a success?” “If he’s got it in him to be a success it’ll come out anyhow, school or no school. If he hasn’t, schoolin’ ‘ll be wasted. But it isn’t wholly that. I need his money. I don’t make no bones about saying so. I’m a poor man, ma’am. It’s about time the boy commenced paying me back for some of the trouble and expense he’s been since he was born.” “Why should he? He didn’t ask to be born!” Johnathan dodged that. “I had to work at his age and pay back my father.” “And hasn’t the memory of that injustice softened you toward you own son?” “Injustice? What injustice? I always had to work. I never even had as much schoolin’ as Nat has already. And look at me!” “Yes, look at you!—A bigoted, psalm-singing, heart-hardened, petulant-mouthed, intolerable old hypocrite! There!” “What? What’s that you say?” “You heard me! You’re all of that and more. And the whole town knows it. You’ve got a boy as rare and fine and promising as you’re common and coarse and vulgar. And you’re deliberately wrecking his life by taking him away from his studies, setting him at work in a horrid smelly tannery for a few easy dollars. Somebody ought to have the law on you!” “And you’re nothing but a fussy, homely, trouble-messin’ old maid. You better go find a man and have a few young ones of your own before you come ’round tellin’ other people how to raise theirs. If this is all you come to see me about, I guess you can hoof it!” “Don’t you know your boy is capable of writing poetry!” demanded the now hysterical teacher. It was the worst thing she could have said. “No, I don’t. But if he is, all the more reason why he should go to the tannery and learn to skin cows! And the sooner the better!” “Don’t you want to see your own son famous?” “I’ve got no guarantee he’ll be famous. But I’m sure, darned sure, of the money he can earn between now and the time he’s twenty-one. Anyhow, knowing how to work and earn money ain’t goin’ to stop him bein’ famous, as a poet or anything else, if he’s got it in him!”