"No, I don't want to go along," I said mockingly.
He didn't seem to notice.
"Luncheon is at--?"
"Two o'clock," said dad.
Dad went into the house, and Twigg put a gray felt hat on his head and
strode off down the drive. I sat on the porch rail and watched him. He
looked about five feet eight inches, and was broad across the shoulders. He
had a good walk. I slouched when I walked. After he was out of sight I
rather wished I'd gone along. There wasn't anything particular to do at
home, and I could have told him about the other tutors; there's some things
that dad doesn't know.
I found Twigg kept a diary. He went to the city on the Wednesday afternoon
after he came, and I rubbered around to see what I could find. The diary
was in his table drawer. It was awful dull rot until I got to the last page
or two. The day before he'd written a lot about me. This was it; I copied
it:
"June 1st.
"Fourth day at Braemere. First desire to throw it up and acknowledge defeat
quite gone. Am determined to see it through. I think I can win. At all
events the thing won't lack interest. Can't flatter myself that I've made
much headway. R. is like a rhinoceros. Can't find a vulnerable spot
anywhere. He seems morally calloused. I say seems because I can scarcely
believe that a boy of sixteen can really be as absolutely unmoral as he
appears. Perhaps, eventually, I will find an Achilles' heel.
"Mr. Dale stands by his agreement. He never offers to interfere. So much
the better. Mr. D.'s attitude toward R. is humorous as well as lamentable.
He views the boy as though he were entirely irresponsible for his being. It
is plain that he sees no connection between the boy's extraordinary
character and his own; yet they are alike in many particulars; one could
almost express my meaning by saying that R. is his father in an
uncultivated state. Mr. D. ascribes the boy's faults to the other side of
the house; he is convinced that the ungovernable temper and lack of moral
sense are unfortunate inheritances from the late Mrs. D. Probably this is
true in a measure. R. was the only child. The mother died at his birth. Mr.
D, returned to this country when R. was four years old, and purchased this
estate. Here the boy has grown up practically neglected. During twelve
years Mr. D. has been out of the country the better part of eight. The boy
has been left to the care of servants. For the past three years he has been
in the hands of tutors, whose periods of service ran from one week to three
months. I am the seventh in line to attempt the work.
"Physically R. is in good shape. He is fond of outdoor life; likes horses,
dogs and animals generally; rides well; shoots and fishes. Mentally he is
decidedly above normal, but quite untrained. Hates study. Would grade about
third year in Latin school. I shall begin at the bottom with him. It's
going to be a hard pull, but I'm going to win out."
I was going to empty the ink bottle over the pages; but I knew if I did
he'd hide the book or lock it up, and I wanted to see what else he'd write.
So I put it back in the drawer. I was sure I'd have him done to a turn in a
month. But it was going to take longer than with the other fools, though.
"That'll do," said Twigg. "You haven't studied a lick, have you?"
"Not a lick," I answered.
"When do you think of beginning?" he asked.
"Not going to begin at all."
"Oh, poppycock, my boy." He tossed down the Latin book and yawned. "Don't
you want to go to college?"
"No; not if I've got to study all that darned stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Darned stuff, I said. You heard me, didn't you?"
"Yes; but I thought perhaps I'd mistaken. Well, we'll try this again
to-morrow. How about mathematics?"