Читать книгу The Mutiny of the Flying Spray - Arthur Hunt Chute - Страница 3
ОглавлениеI LEAVE SCHOOL BY REQUEST
I was expelled from Phillips-Andover Academy at the height of the gold rush in 1849.
At prep school, my chum, Tug Wilson, and myself were frequent visitors in Prexy’s office, until, having worn out our welcome, we were finally requested to leave forthwith, on account of “persistent misdemeanor.”
Our last offense was that of boring a hole in the ceiling of the chapel, and letting a barrel of rice down upon the bowed heads of the faculty during morning prayers.
There were a good many chaps mixed up in this affair. But Tug Wilson and I were of course given the largest credit. Probably, the remembrance that our scholarship was low acted as a determining factor in Prexy’s decision to have us leave school for the school’s good.
Despite the fact that I was an indifferent student, I loved Andover dearly, and leaving her summarily was not without its pull at the heart strings.
The stars were shining brightly through the tree-tops as I left the dormitory, before the dawn, to catch the coach for Boston.
I could almost have cried as I discerned the dim outline of the campus, where I should no more be allowed to play for the old school.
A cold, dark winter’s morning has a sobering effect on one’s spirit. As I walked down the avenue, carrying a portmanteau, my thoughts were gloomy indeed.
A certain letter in my breast pocket added to the sinking feeling of the moment.
As soon as the news of my expulsion came, I wrote my father a long letter, reminding him that they had always had a spite on me at school, and pointing out clearly that the faculty had not given me a square deal.
My father was a peppery individual, irascible in the extreme. Knowing my mother’s influence over him, I expected that at her behest, he would at once write a regular scorcher to Prexy, and tell that old crusty-back where he got off.
Instead, he wrote a brief note to me, which now weighed in my breast pocket like a piece of lead.
Under the street lamp, I took out this missive, and read for the hundredth time,
“You will return home at once. Report at the back door, where the cook will feed you. Then, get out, and get a job.
“Your
“DISGRACED AND DISGUSTED PARENT.”
I was heartsick and homesick, as I stood there shivering under the street lamp. But as soon as I read that letter, I began to get hot under the collar.
Father and I never pulled very well anyway, and this message was the limit.
Why couldn’t he be fair and reasonable?
Why couldn’t he see my side of the case?
His action was nothing less than an insult. It was carrying unreasonableness just a little too far.
Working myself into a fine wrath, I swore right then and there, that I would never darken our doors again.
Return home at once. Indeed I wouldn’t.
I might not be a good scholar, like “Gig-lamps” and some of the stiffs back at school. “But there’s one thing,” I told myself, “I’ve still got the spirit of a louse. I’ll show him before I’m through.”
With all the bitterness which I had formerly felt against old Prexy now turned against my father, I stormed along with my heavy load.
Mad as a fighting cock, I finally climbed up on top of the Boston coach. A long ride in the biting morning air is a grand tonic for bad spirits. So I found it. Before my journey’s end the bitterness had been swept away, and I was beginning to think that perhaps I had been a duffer after all.
I had sworn that I wouldn’t go near home, again. But as the thought of my mother came back to me, I didn’t see how I could help returning.
“Yes,” I told myself, “I must see her, whatever happens. But, there won’t be any more of what Father calls stickin’ round the apron-strings. I’ll show the old boy I can put up my dukes if I have to.”
There never was a greater contrast than that represented by my fond parents. My mother, daughter of a wealthy New England family, represented the softening influence. My father, who had come up from the scuppers, in the shipping business, was an exponent of blood and iron.
Mother was given to refer pridefully to her family, the Lawrences. She had reason to be proud of them, “One of the oldest and best,” as she said. But, whenever she opened up on the subject, Father would snort.
“People who boast of their ancestors are like a potato, the best of ’em’s under ground.”
When Mother told of the fine things she expected me to accomplish at Harvard, like my Uncle Eben, Father would burst out.
“I’m a graduate of the Hawse-pipe University; that’s better than all the Harvards that ever happened.”
My mother’s only motive in life seemed to express itself in the words: “Make it easy for Lawrence.”
As the only child, I was treated to extreme maternal solicitude, continually hearing such exclaimations as:
“Lawrence, dear, keep your rubbers under the stove.”
“Lawrence, darling, don’t go out in the cold.”
Our home was situated on the bleakest part of Brooklyn Heights, and my poor mother was always complaining, “I’m so afraid that Lawrence will get pneumonia from that horrid wind.”
At which, my father would reply, “Bah, the way that nor’wester hits this place is worth a thousand a year in the lad’s education.”
The over-solicitousness on the one side invariably drew the lament from the other, “You’re ruining that boy.”
Despite the pungency of my father’s character, he was strangely amenable to sweetness and light, so that whenever an issue was joined over my upbringing, Mother was bound to have her way, while Father went off muttering.
“Why didn’t we have a girl, anyway. Ellen was never made to be the mother of a man-child.”
Through the years there had always been a compromise to maternal whims, but my expulsion from Andover suddenly and decisively ended all that. At last, my father, Benjamin Curtis, put down his heavy, forthright foot, in unmistakable manner, declaring:
“The mollycoddle stuff is ended. That lad has got to make good, or make tracks.”
