Harvard University -- Fiction; Love stories; Plantations -- Virginia -- Fiction; Youth -- Fiction
“Thank Heaven!” said Guy fervently. “The old spirit that refuses to
endure unjust oppression is still with us. Just so long as we have
the courage to write to the _Crimson_ protesting against the ‘present
unsatisfactory method of distributing the Yale game tickets’ the cause
of liberty is not lost! Varian――he’s an editor or an office boy or
a printer’s devil or something on the _Crimson_――told me yesterday
that they’re going to issue a special sixteen-page paper this year to
accommodate the letters from indignant subscribers. I’m going to write
myself; I promised him I would. And you ought to, too. It’s your
duty. Think it over. And, by the way, if you care about getting these
tickets, you’d better call at my room this afternoon about four. So
long.”
When Phillip got the tickets he was inclined to follow Guy’s advice
and “register a kick.” There were six of them, two of his own, two
for Kingsford and two for a fellow named Muir, and they were half-way
up the South Stand and just back of the ten-yard line. But Kingsford
said it didn’t matter; that he wasn’t going to watch a lot of sluggers
wrestle about in the mud; that he had other things to do during the
game.
“Oh!” said Phillip. “Well, that’s well enough for you; you’ve got your
friend. But how about me?”
“Why, you ingrate! Haven’t I agreed to put you between the mater and
my sister? The mater will tell you all about the strange ailments that
visited me when I was a babe in arms, and how from the very earliest
moment I gave indications of the intellect that is now making me
famous. And Betty will recite Thoreau or Emerson to you dreamily, and
ask you whether you think you’re what you could have been had you been
other than what you are――or words to that effect.”
Phillip looked frightened.
“I reckon you’d better let me have that end seat,” he said dejectedly.
“I don’t know how to talk about Emerson or Thoreau. I didn’t even know
he pronounced his name that way――Thoreau, I mean. They’ll think I’m an
awful fool, won’t they?”
“Cheer up!” laughed Kingsford. “Maybe they won’t guess it. Anyhow, I
promise not to tell.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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