At first they thought he was one of the new students, he was such a
little fellow and had such a smooth, boyish face. And one of the
college men had stopped him on the street, and, in a manner that
seemed to indicate that he had some particular reason for desiring the
information, asked him abruptly: "What class do you belong to?"
The little tutor had looked up timidly through his large spectacles
and answered, in his thin, high voice: "I am not a member of any of
the classes. I am to be one of the instructors in the academy."
He had smiled reassuringly, to show that he did not take any offence.
But the tall young man did not seem to dream of embarrassment; he only
said: "You _are_?" and passed on.
This happened early in September, the day before the term opened, and
the little tutor had been busying himself looking about the campus and
getting his bearings in the little city. He had never been in the West
before, and this seemed very far out West; it was like a foreign
country to him. The broad, evenly laid, well-kept streets lined with
so many fine lawns, were a matter of great interest and speculation.
He thought it queer that when a man could afford to have nearly a
whole block of lawn that he should have only a frame house upon it,
but some of these frame houses were very large and comfortable and
invariably freshly painted, and he liked that. He admired the new and
handsome business blocks of fine brick and stone. But what seemed most
wonderful to him was the broad, level sweep of the prairie when he
walked out into the country. It almost took his breath away.
But it was the campus, as being his future place of work, that
occupied most of his attention and curiosity. He walked slowly over it
all, examining each building and every feature thoughtfully and with a
critical air as one about to buy. There were only about a half-dozen
buildings in all, including both the college and academy. It struck
him as odd that both institutions should be on the same grounds and
apparently of the same importance. The buildings were rather new, and
he missed the dignified, patriarchal aspect of the old campus he had
been accustomed to. He thought he could never feel any veneration for
all this brand-newness as he had toward those old landmarks he loved
so well. Indeed, it all seemed small and puny viewed in this light,
and he walked about with rather a patronizing air, as he thought with
pride of his Alma Mater, and it seemed to him that this institution
was favored in obtaining for an instructor a graduate of such a famous
old institution--and an honorman, too, he said to himself, with a
blush of satisfaction.
Of course, this preparatory school teaching was only temporary with
him. Only a preparation for something else, and that but a step to
something higher, until he became--but the little tutor never
acknowledged just how high his ambition aimed. It was at this point,
as he was leaning against a tree, that the young man had come up and
asked him what class he belonged to.
But he had not minded that in the least; he knew how boyish-looking he
was. It was very natural for them to make such mistakes. A little
thing like that would not discourage him. They did not know him; wait
a few days, and they would learn who he was.
And he was right. The whole college and academy learned who he was the
very next afternoon in chapel. And even the townsfolk soon learned to
know him by sight; they thought it odd that such a little fellow
should be a professor. By the end of the month the children coming
home from school had learned to point out his small figure with the
large head, carried with his peculiar, springing strides, and they
would say to one another, "There goes the Little Tutor."
But as they watched him walking briskly by, holding his body stiff and
straight, they little knew what was going on behind that smile, which
was a curious mixture of gravity and good nature.
For some reason or other things had not gone as he had expected, and
so far, at least, they were not tending toward the future he had
pictured.
He had thought that out there they would appreciate that he came from
such a large, famous old institution, and that he had stood so well in
his class and all that; but neither the attitude of the faculty,
college, nor academy indicated anything of the kind, he thought. And
this wasn't all. No one seemed to take any interest in him as an
individual. That is, beyond a cold curiosity.
He did not see why no one took the initiative and made friends with
him; he could not, being a new-comer. He knew he had never been very
popular at college, but he had a few good friends, and nearly every
one of his classmates was kind to him. As he looked back on those dear
old days, midst those dear old influences, his present surroundings
seemed cold, very cold.
And he could not explain this coldness. Surely it could not all be on
account of that first mistake. Oh, that terrible first day in chapel.
He thought he would never forget it. He remembered sitting up there on
the platform, before all the college and academy--for out there the
whole faculty come to chapel, and they sit in a semicircle behind the
President. He was conscious of many eyes being upon him, and he knew
what they were thinking and whispering to each other, "Is that the new
tutor?" "What a kid!" And, indeed, as he cast his eyes furtively over
the faces before him he discovered even among the preps. many a
raw-boned countryman who was his senior in years, and this thought had
so rattled him that he took off his glasses--those large owl-eyed
things--and began wiping them, as he always did when embarrassed, and
then he suddenly reminded himself that this always made him appear
more youthful, and so he clapped them on again. He had not felt this
peculiar lonely out-of-it feeling for a good many years; no, not since
beginning of freshman year, at his first eating club.
But what was that? He had heard his name pronounced. Surely he was not
going to be called upon to lead in prayer. Then the whole sentence
re-echoed in his confused brain, the distinct clear-cut words of the
President, "Horatio B. Stacy, A.B., will be Professor Wilkin's
assistant in the academy." If any of the bold, searching eyes had for
a moment wandered from him, he knew they had returned again now. He
remembered wondering if he jumped enough for them to see him. He
remembered how the steam-heater rattled and pounded in the little
chapel and the odor of the new paint, as the young President went on
with his perfectly enunciated words in his clear and cold voice: "He
comes highly recommended from a good Eastern college. I trust he will
prove satisfactory. Let us sing number three hundred and sixteenth."
The President pronounced sixteenth perfectly. And the organ burst
forth with a loud, cruel prelude, and the hymn was sung. The little
tutor always remembered number three hundred and sixteen, one bar of
which always seemed to sing "satisfactory."
When the long hymn was finished, the President, having pronounced the
benediction, stepped down from the platform and started down the
centre aisle, followed by an old white-headed professor, and he by the
professor on his left. The little tutor sat next, and so, innocently
enough, he started down behind them. How was he to know that there was
a custom to be observed in this trooping out of chapel, that the order
was determined by precedence? Ah, it made him flush when he thought of
it, even now. He could remember just how the whole college and academy
laughed--they did not titter, but laughed outright--and when he
realized the position and hesitated, trembling, half-way down the
aisle, and tried to smile, some of them fairly shouted. He could even
now see, in his mind, the face of one of the college men next to the
aisle as he leaned back and laughed merrily, cruelly, looking squarely
into the little tutor's eyes without pretending to control his mirth.
The little tutor never remembered how he gained the cool of the
outside.
But why was he to be blamed? They should have told him. How was he to
know that there was any rule about the matter? At his college the
professors never attended chapel; that is, except two or three, who
sat in the stalls.
The next morning, with some fear and much hope, he had met his first
class. Perhaps his hand shook a little as he held the roll while his
pupils came into the room, and his voice trembled, perhaps, as he
addressed the class, and he couldn't help blushing--his old
failing--when he heard the laugh caused by his mispronouncing a queer
name; but he told himself that he had gotten along splendidly when the
long day was over, and the future seemed bright once more as he
planned his work.
He thought out just what his attitude toward his pupils would be. He
was determined that he would not lord it over them, but would win
their confidence, become friends with them, get to know them all
personally, and invite them around to his rooms some time, perhaps. He
even determined upon his policy of discipline, if that should become
necessary. He would not, he thought, be sarcastic with them, as one of
his professors at college used to; no, because that, he deemed, was
taking a mean advantage of the student, who could not, by reason of
the relations of master and pupil, answer back; the master had it all
on his side. Neither did he think he would affect the indignant
attitude; no, because--well, he remembered the fellows' laugh at him
when he once tried to be indignant. He would assume a dignified
disregard, as the dean used to. That was the best method of
maintaining order and attention in a class-room. That would best
become Horatio B. Stacy, A.B. He fell asleep that night wondering what
his pupils would give him for a nickname.
Now, as the week went by he never had been obliged to exercise his
authority. The classes all paid very good attention, better than he
had hoped for. But how very different this thing teaching was from
what he had supposed!
The little tutor had been there almost a month; he had walked all
around the town and about the country; had faithfully attended all his
classes, and sometimes he had six hours a day; had gone to chapel
every evening at five; had sat, stared at, in the semicircle behind
the President, and had trooped out again with his odd gait, and always
the _last_ one in the procession now. But he had not a single friend
in the State, unless it was his landlady with the false hair front.
He remembered thinking at college that the attitude of those dear old
professors was rather distant. But that dignified conservatism was
nothing like this unconcern, this icy indifference, manifested by
these professors and assistants; and he was one of their number
remember, too.
He smiled grimly as he recollected how that, when he first came, he
had rather expected that some of them might invite him to dine. This
he deemed would be proper in view of his position as an assistant,
especially as this institution was so small that the faculty was not
large enough to be divided into many cliques. And he had even pictured
himself enjoying a delightful conversation with that old, white-haired
professor whom he had taken such a fancy to, or, perhaps, holding an
animated discussion with some of them as to the respective merits of
Western and Eastern colleges.
But he could have endured their attitude if only his plans would work
in regard to his classes. It was about his pupils that he thought the
most. He made a study of each man and each mind and learned what to
expect from each: which were good at one kind of work and which at
another; which were the bright, indolent fellows and which were the
plodders. They nearly all worked quite hard, that was the one
encouraging thing. But he could not understand them. The little tutor
had never been to a preparatory school himself, but he felt certain
that these fellows were not like most preps. He certainly could not
understand their attitude toward himself. He wanted to be friendly
with them all, and tried to laugh and joke occasionally to make the
relations easy, but it was of no use, they only looked at him
inquiringly, as if he were doing something they hadn't bargained for.
They all came to recitation in a business-like way, which seemed to
say, "Here we are, now you teach us."
They never thought of bowing to him as they came in. They seemed to
regard him only as an automaton that was paid--and by _their_
money--to stand up there and teach, and he would not have believed
that he was thought of by them outside, that he entered into their
existence at all, if he had not one day come into the room with rubber
over-shoes on his feet and heard them say something about the "Little
Tutor." That was the time he learned his nickname, and he felt rather
glad when he heard them say it, though they were somewhat confused
when they turned and saw him.
When recitations were over, when they had gotten their money's worth,
they returned to their lodgings in the same brisk business-like
manner, for dormitories are scarce out there. The little tutor thought
perhaps this had something to do with the lack of college feeling in
the institution. There was no _esprit de corps_. They were, the whole
collection of them, college and academy, simply a lot of young men who
came together in one place, paid their money and got an education by
which they would earn more than enough to repay them. So you see it
was a good bargain. Perhaps this was putting it too strongly, he
reminded himself, for there was some feeble exhibition of class spirit
once or twice, and a football team, too, that practised after supper
in their shirt-sleeves. But, oh! how he longed for a sight of those
old familiar figures he used to see slouching carelessly across the
campus in corduroys and sweaters, with pipes and songs and all that
easy good friendship, and the practising at the 'varsity grounds. But
these are bitter thoughts.
He hoped that these pupils of his would not always wear linen shirts.
He wished their vests were not cut so low. He longed for a sight of a
familiar cheviot shirt and a carelessly tied bow at the neck. He would
have given a good deal, he thought, just to see one man walking by
with a sweater tied by the arms about his neck, a dirty sweater
perhaps, and his hands deep down in his pockets. Sometimes he felt
that he would enjoy, yes, actually, hearing somebody flunk in one of
his classes. Who would have thought that of little poler Stacy?
You see the boy was almost hysterical with this morbid homesickness.
He was brim full of it, and a very slight jar would have been enough
to upset him and spill it all.
Sometimes he realized that he was making a fool of himself and then he
used to take himself in hand for being so childish. But he had always
had these little boyish ways of thinking about the people and things
around him. He remembered how it was at college; when he first came as
a freshman his poor little brain was nearly worn out with wondering
and imagining, and when he fell to thinking of those days long ago, it
seemed impossible to him that he was a grown man now and teaching in
an academy. But it was true, and the framed diploma hung in his room.
And, what was more to the point, he was making money. He had felt
encouraged when he received his first earnings.
On a Saturday evening he had called around at the treasurer's office
and received his money, carefully counted and put in an envelope with
a blue lining. The treasurer was an old man with a hard face, and when
the little tutor came in he did not say "How do you do," or anything,
but simply turned toward the safe and took out the money, keeping the
pen in his teeth as he did so, and only taking it out to ask, as he
looked up at the little tutor, "That is right," in an exact tone, "is
it not?"
He hated this proceeding, and hoped that next time there would not be
the right amount, so that he might have a cheque. But he felt
light-hearted when he carried the money to his room and wrote his
letter home and enclosed a certain share of his profits. Prospects
seemed brighter and his hopes ran high, and his dreams ran away out
into the future when all his drudgery would be over and he would be
recognized as a great man, an authority on--but somehow it was hard to
hold those old aspirations that had seemed so realizable about
commencement time, when he was an honor man. This cold western climate
and these common-sense practical New Englanders seemed to have a
chilling effect upon his ambitions, especially as his self-confidence
was never very firmly rooted, for he was not, strangely enough for a
young man, very much of a believer in himself, and his conceit was not
spontaneous, but was of the bolstered-up kind, so that when he halted
in his castle-building he was in a very dangerous position, for, if
you take a young man's conceit away from him, is he _not_ in a very
dangerous position indeed?
He was also, he told himself, learning this life lesson: that to win
what men call success in this world required something that he was
afraid he did not possess: he did not know exactly what to call it.
When he was in college he used to comfort himself with saying: "Never
mind, you may not amount to much here, but when you get out in the
world individual worth will not be handicapped by modesty." But he was
beginning to despair of this. It would do well enough in books, but it
took what they call _bluff_ to get along with men, even if you want to
do them good, and this, he knew very well, he did not, and never
could, possess. And when he followed this line of thought, he used to
sigh and come to the conclusion that what the world called success was
not worth the struggle when one had to use such manoeuvring to win
it. But he reminded himself that he must not allow himself to sink
into such pessimism, as in his case those at home had a claim upon
him.
It was not at all characteristic of the "little Stacy" of college days
to become so despondent, for he was of a hopeful, trusting
disposition, and it was all because he had no friend to talk to, no
kindred spirit for his confiding nature, or any other kind for that
matter.
His discouragement took the form of indignation in the end, but not
before he had several times taken hope and smiled in his old trustful
way, only to find that it was a blind lead.
For instance when that young Wheaton in his rhetoric class appeared to
be striking up a friendship with him, and even walked through the
campus several times with him, the chances of having a friend had
seemed fair and he began to think that at last he was being
appreciated by one fellow, and a nice fellow too. But after young
Wheaton had obtained an extension of time on the essay he was to write
his manifestations of friendliness suddenly ceased. And the little
tutor wondered how he had offended his pupil.
Then there was the time he was invited to a certain annual reception
that is always given. The little tutor knew that he was asked only by
reason of his position, but he remembered accepting with a good deal
of pleasure, and the anticipation of his _entrée_ into the society of
the town was a matter of no small excitement to him: a good deal
depended on it, he had told himself. He meditated considerably over
the manner of conducting himself in his first appearance in society as
an instructor: what was becoming to a tutor, and just how dignified he
ought to appear, and he even found himself practising remarks in his
room and examining in the glass the expression of his face and all
those old failings of his self-conscious nature of which he was so
ashamed. He remembered how excited he was as he rang the door-bell,
and how awkwardly he bowed when he had come down-stairs, and how
little the people restrained their curiosity in examining him. He did
not mingle with the younger people any more than he could help, for he
always hated young ladies, but stayed with a group of women who were
talking about Emerson.
These ladies were members of a literary club, which thought itself
very literary and tried to be Bostonian; and no doubt it was. Stacy
had some very good ideas, and would have been willing to express them,
and could have quoted readily from an essay he had once written, but
somehow they did not seem to be expecting anything from him except to
smile and say, "Yes, certainly," now and then, as those two young
assistants were doing, and so he tried to pick up a low-toned
conversation with one of them on the edge of the circle. But they made
themselves so obnoxious by their air of superiority that he boldly
made some allusion to the athletic insignificance on the part of their
college in comparison with his own. One of them immediately made some
answer which brought in something about Yale (at which the other
laughed loudly), and then drew up his brow and looked complacent, as
if he had made a splendid shot. The poor little tutor turned on his
heel furious, and felt a strange desire to swear, something that he
had never done in all his innocent life.
He came to the conclusion that the fault of this whole matter lay not
in himself, but in them. This is what he conceived to be the reason:
Nearly everyone in the little city, students, faculty and townspeople,
were New Englanders by blood or birth. That part of the country, like
other sections of the West, happened to have been settled entirely by
New Englanders. Perhaps they were not all of the best sort of New
England extraction either. At any rate no one knew anything but New
England ways of doing things and looking at things, and to the little
tutor, whose environments had not been such as to cause him to bow
down and worship the Pilgrim fathers, or to think that the sun rose
and set on Plymouth Rock, all this was at first a matter of surprise,
then of wonder, and finally of hate.
Every day in chapel the President spoke in his cold tones of character
moulding, and held up before his hearers Puritan models. On Sundays
the little tutor went to the principal church of the place, and a kind
of essay that seemed to him nothing but washed-out New Englandism was
thrown out to him. The text-books were all those of New England
writers; all the manners and customs about the college were copied
after New England colleges; the very compositions that he had to
correct contained allusions to the Pilgrim Fathers and sturdy New
England character and noble Puritan traits until the little tutor
began to wish that there never had been a Plymouth Rock. He wondered
how everyone else seemed to stand it so well. But they had been
brought up on it and never knew anything different, and could not
conceive of any one's not thinking as they did and as their fathers
did and as their great-grandfathers had done, and pitied (only Stacy
doubted if they could pity) any family that did not have a piece of
the Mayflower to worship.
The most aggravating feature of it, to the little tutor, was that they
were so very self-satisfied about it all, never dreaming that there
could be anyone so barbarous as not to envy their New England blood,
and it was this attitude that used to make the little tutor indignant
and cause him to wish he could be sarcastic, as one of his professors
used to be: how he would pitch into them! But the worst of it was that
he realized his diminutiveness and his boyishness; so he felt helpless
and baffled, and he had to submit to the cold indifference and haughty
air of superiority worn by those two young assistants not much older
than himself, who graduated from such a miserable little unheard-of
college. Stacy thought that if they had gone to his college they would
have had some of the conceit taken out of them. He thought he might
stand it all as far as he was concerned, but he felt somehow as if
they were insulting his college in their treatment of himself, her
representative. He blushed to think how poor a representative he was.
It was just at this point in his discouragement that he had an
opportunity which he had often longed for. At last he would have a
chance to show them what was in him. This would be his final stroke,
he told himself, and he staked his all upon it. He was to lead the
prayer-meeting. These prayer-meetings were attended by the college,
the academy, and even the professors.
Like many excessively shy men, the little tutor was not abashed before
a crowd when he appeared in some identity other than his own. At
college he had always done well in his orations, because unconsciously
he merged his own personality into that of an imaginary orator. So on
this occasion he was perfectly cool; indeed, he was surprised at
himself. The subject was, "Help one another." He had thought, in
preparing it, that it was a singular coincidence, his having that
subject. He thought he could talk to them from his heart on such a
subject. And he did.
They all listened intently, and he thought they must be surprised to
see how thoughtful he was, and how earnest, and what a splendid
speaker he was. When he finished, he knew that he had done well.
He felt almost joyful when he returned to his room. He dreamed that
night that certain men came up to him as he was walking alone, and
tried to become intimate with him, as he had seen it done at college
with fellows who had suddenly become prominent.
The next morning he was joined on the way to the campus by the
principal of the academy. Stacy thought he was going to compliment him
upon his admirable talk. But he was mistaken. He even hinted about it
indirectly, though ashamed of himself for so doing; but this had no
effect. At last, in desperation, he was going to say, "Professor
Thorne, may I ask you whether my talk last evening met your approval,"
but while he was trying to invent some excuse for such a question they
reached the academy building.
As he took his seat on the platform waiting for morning prayers to
begin (the academy had prayers as well as evening chapel), he looked
around at the preps. and studied their faces carefully.
Professor Thorne that morning spoke on one aspect of
character-moulding, namely, "Independence." He did not directly
mention the address of the evening before, but Stacy thought he might
just as well have, as he sat there beside the principal before the
eyes of the whole academy without changing his gaze from the floor or
moving a muscle, except once, when the principal made some reference
to the sturdy New England character; then the little tutor made a
slight involuntary gesture, but no one noticed it.
That morning in the class-room the little tutor did not seem himself,
and his pupils watched him curiously. And if the conduct and
appearance of the little tutor was unusual that morning, what was it
in the afternoon!
At one o'clock, when nearly every one went down to get the mail, the
little tutor was casually noticed by some of them in the post-office.
"Anything for Horatio B. Stacy?" he asked at the window in a high
voice. Then they noticed him excitedly tear open the one letter he had
received and, as he ran over the contents, he said excitedly, in a
voice loud enough to be heard, "Just in time--just," but at that point
he seemed to notice that he was being observed. His dazed expression
was a curious mixture of surprise and, perhaps, pleasure.
Then he came in late to his recitation at three o'clock and seemed to
be barely able to keep his attention on the work, and now and then he
would look up and smile and stare at them in an indescribably queer
way. And in the midst of the next recitation he suddenly arose and,
motioning the young man that was reciting to take his seat, he said,
in a husky voice, "Here, stop! the class will please excuse me," and
bowing politely, even grandly, he hurried out of the room, not seeming
to care that his pupils had not got their money's worth. The little
tutor was not himself.
At half-past seven o'clock that evening he came promptly to the
faculty meeting and quietly took his customary seat by the door. None
of the faculty were aware of anything unusual until after they had
transacted the ordinary business and had decided one or two cases that
came up, and the president had arisen, as usual, and said, in his
clear tones, "Gentlemen of the faculty, is there further business of
any nature to come before this meeting?" and the white-headed old
professor as usual had turned his head sedately around to see if there
was anything, and then settled down in his chair again with his
disappointed look, as was his custom. At this point the little tutor
arose.
No one saw him at first, and the president was beginning to say "Then
the meeting stands adjourned," but before he reached the last word the
little tutor cleared his throat with a loud, forced sound, which made
them all, young and old, turn their eyes upon him. He was smiling,
they thought.
"I think it is about time for me to speak," he said, in his high
voice, with a little nervous tremor in it.
He was vaguely conscious of this, and, also, of the light of the lamp
reflected upon the blackboard back of the President's head. Then he
buttoned up his little cut-away coat and began the speech he had
practised in his room. He spoke slowly and, apparently, very coolly,
and in a deep voice which he always assumed in delivering his
orations.
"You are probably aware, as I am, that in the wording of the letter by
which I was engaged to serve as Professor Wilkins's assistant in your
academy, there was no clause which specifies the length of time for
which I was to serve in that capacity. This is the case, is it not? A
purely temporary arrangement, so that, in case I proved
unsatisfactory"--he tried to imitate the President's pronunciation of
this word--"I need not be retained the entire year.
"I have been here one month," he said, with impressiveness. He paused
a moment, and then assuming a smile which he thought was like one of
his old classmates, he concluded: "I appreciate the delicacy of your
position, and will relieve you of the disagreeable duty--a duty from
which you have been restrained by your very kind and thoughtful
appreciation for my feelings--by voluntarily offering my resignation."
The little tutor walked bravely over to the desk and bowing low laid a
carefully written sheet of paper on the desk, thereby purposely
allowing an opportunity for expression of opinion. But he had crossed
the room and reached his place before anyone began to speak; at first
it seemed as if nothing was going to be said on their part. Then the
President at last made answer, speaking very deliberately, it seemed
to Stacy:
"Well, Mr. Stacy, this is very sudden; very unexpected. We are
surprised. Believe me, Mr. Stacy, in case the performance of your
duties had not been satisfactory, we would have advised you."
The little tutor believed him.
"Furthermore, your work has been entirely satisfactory, has it not,
Professor Thorne?"
"Entirely," echoed Professor Thorne, across the room.
The little tutor was baffled by the tones of the President. He thought
they belied his words. Nobody seemed to be impressed as he had
expected.
"It is my intention to leave to-morrow!" he exclaimed, excitedly,
making an emphatic gesture with his hand.
"Surely, Mr. Stacy, you are laboring under some wrong impression.
Surely, there is some misunderstanding. You are a little excited, Mr.
Stacy. Perhaps you are a little overworked. You had better think it
over before you make up your mind permanently."
Professor Thorne here spoke up: "Don't you think, Mr. Stacy, that it
would be a little unwise on your own account. Pardon me, Mr. Stacy,
but I understand your circumstances, and it would be rather late in
the year to obtain another position now."
The President was about to say something further, but as he turned he
saw on the young man's face a look as of a weak animal at bay; and he
stopped.
"Don't you know why I'm leaving this place? I'll tell you," he
exclaimed, excitedly; all his oratorical manner and assumed
grandiloquence was forgotten with the rest of his speech. He almost
screamed in his natural voice, "I'll tell you, I HATE you--all, every
one." He swept his hand wildly around the circle, "From the oldest,
gray-haired D.D. to those two conceited young assistants, you cold,
intellectual, cultured, bloodless, unemotional, self-satisfied
creatures--I HATE YOU. Of course _you_ don't care; you won't lose
anything by my hate." He paused a moment, buttoned up his little coat
and began again, the words pouring out of themselves: "I know I'm
nobody; I know I'm not attractive, or cultured, but I'm a human
being--if I'm not from New England--and I have a human heart. I have
been here a whole month, and in that time what one of you has made a
friendly advance?--has spoken a word of encouragement?--has even
taken note of my existence, except as a machine paid to do a certain
amount of work? I found that out that first day in chapel when your
President told you all of the bargain he had made. He assured you that
you were not cheated, as the article rented had had a good standing in
his class. I wondered at the time he did not, in naming my good points
like a horse, mention my college instead of saying _a good Eastern
college_--that's what I can't stand. I could endure the treatment of
myself, but those slurs on my college I cannot and will not stand.
Stop! Don't get excited; don't try to explain anything. You don't want
me to go, because you think you have a good, hard-working horse. You
think to detain me by informing me of my poverty. That might do,
but--but read that!" He snatched from his pocket the letter he had
received that morning.
"_Read that!_" and he started toward the desk with the letter in his
hand. But the strain was too much for the little tutor. He fainted for
the first time in his life.
* * * * *
He never found out whether they read the letter or not. Of course, he
could have ascertained by writing out there, but he never did.
Indeed, he did not like to think of that time now, though he did love
to take out a certain letter with a printed head at the top and read
the formal language which stated briefly how that, owing to the fact
that Mr. Charles Benjamin Howard had decided, etc., "the fellowship
in, etc., was open to Horatio B. Stacy as being, etc., and that it was
with a great deal of pleasure"--but he knew it all by heart, because
he had intended to repeat it once on a certain awful occasion when he
was, he thought, temporarily insane, at least not Horatio B. Stacy.