ith me how I was to lodge at Oxford, to what
particular branches of study and of sport I was to give my preference,
speaking always with such catching confidence that I came to regard my
sojourn in this brick and mortar prison as only a question of months.
One day, talking of this future, and laughing as we walked briskly.
through the shrill streets, I told him the words my mother had
said--long ago, as it seemed to me, for life is as a stone rolling
down-hill, and moves but slowly at first; she and I sitting on the moss
at the foot of old "Jacob's Folly"--that he was our Prince fighting
to deliver us from the grim castle called "Hard Times," guarded by the
dragon Poverty.
My father laughed and his boyish face flushed with pleasure.
"And she was right, Paul," he whispered, pressing my small hand in
his--it was necessary to whisper, for the street where we were was very
crowded, but I knew that he wanted to shout. "I will fight him and I
will slay him." My father made passes in the air with his walking-stick,
and it was evident from the way they drew aside that the people round
about fancied he was mad. "I will batter down the iron gates and she
shall be free. I will, God help me, I will."
The gallant gentleman! How long and how bravely he fought! But in the
end it was the Dragon triumphed, the Knight that lay upon the ground,
his great heart still. I have read how, with the sword of Honest
Industry, one may always conquer this grim Dragon. But such was in
foolish books. In truth, only with the sword of Chicanery and the stout
buckler of Unscrupulousness shall you be certain of victory over him. If
you care not to use these, pray to your Gods, and take what comes with a
stout heart.
CHAPTER III.
HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY.
"Louisa!" roared my father down the kitchen stairs, "are you all asleep?
Here have I had to answer the front door myself." Then my father strode
into his office, and the door slammed. My father could be very angry
when nobody was by.
Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, authoritative
jangle. My mother, who was peeling potatoes with difficulty in
wash-leather gloves, looked at my aunt who was shelling peas. The bell
rang again louder still this time.
"Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?" enquired my aunt.
"You go, Paul," said my mother; "say that Louisa--" but with the words a
sudden flush overspread my mother's face, and before
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