The Lad’s book was out. After a season of anxious waiting we knew of its
success. The best reviews spoke highly of its creative thought, and
praised the mental keenness and the logic of its author.
Rainforth wrote a letter warm with enthusiasm. He pronounced himself and
his arguments annihilated, and declared that nothing in his life had
given him more pleasure than the process of being ground to powder by
his friend.
Last of all came a few lines from a famous English scientist. The Lad
read them and flushed hot with delight.
“I declare! This makes me feel like a great man,” he said.
Then he announced that he was going home.
“I haven’t set eyes on my old father for over a year. And nobody in the
world will be so pleased as he to know that this thing has gone through
successfully.”
He went away a few days later. The Butterfly Hunter waited with me in
the parlour to say good-bye to the Lad; he was making a parting call on
Janet.
“I must be away in a few days too,” said the Butterfly Hunter.
“Is it a new trip?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered cheerfully. “My last butterfly died yesterday. The
experiment was a failure. I am going to the East for a new collection.”
Through the window I could see the Man of the World, who was standing on
the street corner, watching the passers-by. His new suit looked very
fresh. The trousers were carefully creased, and turned up twice at the
bottom. The Man of the World was probably waiting, though he would not
have admitted it, for a last word with the Lad. The air of the summer
afternoon made him more languid than ever. It was a pathetic little
figure.
“He will never do any genuine living,” I thought, “but will always be a
spectator, bored and sad.”
The Lad came back with his quick, running step. He was excited. The hair
above his broad, white forehead was in disorder as he said good-bye; his
eyes were radiant with pure joy.
“I shall be here again in a week,” he said, as he grasped his bag, “and
ready for the fray once more.”
I watched him as he went down the street. Once he looked back, lifted
his hat, then disappeared.
The keenness of my pride in the Lad almost hurt me. If his mother could
only know him now!
Through the growing dimness of my eyes I saw him in fancy after he was
gone. In his eager movement he resembled the figures on Greek reliefs of
youths speeding for a prize, and always after in my thought I likened
him to those immortal runners and winners of the race.