justice to
himself, that he had thought the dream of the other thing a fancy that
had passed and had been put away with the notions of his prep-days. And
yet he had found no peace in his new decision. His plans for next year,
his work in class, his new success with certain ventures which after two
years of the hardest, closest pinching, had put within his reach the
means to gratify a few little whims, to indulge in a few things his
poverty had hitherto forbidden him--a few common things the men around
him enjoyed, and the lack of which he had ever concealed even from
himself--all these were made footless by the ache in the bottom of his
soul. And, as he sat and pondered on it, a hard, dull resentment which
he had hitherto kept down by sheer will power rose above his other
thoughts and claimed admission as a reality. His father had no right to
do this thing to him. He was an old man; his chance was past, given up
for a few barrels, more or less, of distilled spirits. It was for this
that the something inside was asking him to forfeit the chance he had
made for himself. The University was his home. His father had done
nothing toward this. The laundry agency had provided a living, and the
broad democracy of the college had done the rest for him. He was one of
the "prominent men" now, a somebody, as he had never been and never
could be in the travesty of home that had been his father's giving. Upon
his life here rested the possibilities of the future toward which he
looked dreamingly sometimes when his notes were written up, and the
laundry accounts checked. Assuredly, his father had no claim on this; to
admit it would be an injustice to himself, to his ambition, and to his
work. And yet this face which had come between him and his book the
first night the fight had been on must haunt him always in the hour when
his tide was turning.

A thump on the window which opened on the front piazza recalled him from
his reverie. A dozen feet were shuffling on the stones outside, and a
ruddy face glowed over the sash.

"Go away, Pellams. Got to plug," said Jimmie, hastily resuming his book.

"Relate your predicaments to a constable," said Pellams. "There's going
to be a Thirsting Bee at the----"

"Can't go. Got to work on my thesis."

"Relate _that_ to your Uncle Adderclaws. Tumble out, now."

Jimmie only shook his head. There was a conference outside in whispers;
then the gang withdrew with suspicious alacrity. Two minutes late