But Jack Tappen was not the only cross that Dick had to bear just then. As a tutor Dick was having his troubles, too. Harold Townsend had at last, to use Caspar Billings’ expression, “laid down in the shafts.” Not only that, but he was “kicking over the traces” as well. Dick was pretty nearly at his wits’ end. The pupil’s first slight awe of his teacher had soon worn off, and now he was frankly mutinous. He no longer made pretense of studying the lessons Dick laid out for him, only grinned exasperatingly when taken to task, and, in short, openly defied authority. Dick worried for two reasons: In the first place, he disliked to be beaten. In the second place, he felt that he had no right to take money from Harold’s mother when he was not earning it. And he wanted the money and needed it. Harold apparently realized that any appeal to his mother by Dick would be useless. And Dick was pretty certain of as much himself. Nevertheless, on Thursday of that week he decided that the time had come for an understanding. Loring, Harold’s older brother, had threatened all sorts of dire punishment if that youth didn’t behave, but the threats had not impressed Harold much. Perhaps he knew that Loring wouldn’t carry them out. On Thursday the lesson had been the merest farce, and Harold’s behavior had for once almost caused Dick to lose command of a usually well-governed temper. At last: “I shall have to talk to your mother, Harold,” he said. “This kind of thing can’t go on. You’re wasting your time and mine——” “Aw, you get paid, don’t you?” asked Harold, with a scowl. “I get paid for teaching, not for loafing,” responded Dick sharply. “I shall want to see you when I come back. So don’t go off, please.” “I shall if I want to. You don’t own me, Lovering. Besides, study time’s up, anyway.” Dick, disdaining to answer, set off to find Mrs. Townsend. The conference took place on a corner of the hotel veranda. Mrs. Townsend was a sweet-voiced, pretty woman, with a tired air. At first she seemed to resent Dick’s charge against her boy. Then she grew pathetic, and bewailed the fact of her husband’s death. “If he had lived,” she sighed, “Harold would have been a different boy. I’ve never been able to do anything with him. He needs a stronger hand, I fear. Perhaps—that is, possibly—er—it would have been better to have found someone—someone a little older to take him in hand. Of course, I don’t mean to suggest that you haven’t done excellently, Mr. Lovering, for I’m quite sure you have; but, of course, as you are so little older than Harold, he may feel—er—you see what I mean, don’t you?” “Yes’m, but I don’t think that’s the trouble. Harold doesn’t want to study, doesn’t seem to see the necessity of learning and won’t. If I had full authority over him——” “Oh, but you have! I thought that was understood.” “Oh, for two hours, perhaps, Mrs. Townsend; but what I mean is that if I—well, if you’d just back me up, I’m sure I could accomplish something.”