Left Tackle Thayer | Page 8

along.'"

"Oh," murmured Clint
"Just the remark I was about to make," declared Amy.

CHAPTER III
AMY AIRS HIS VIEWS
Clint settled down into his appointed niche at Brimfield, one of one
hundred and seventy-two individuals of various ages between twelve
and twenty. At Brimfield there were six forms, and Clint had, after a
brief examination, been assigned to the fourth. He found that he was
well up with the class in everything save Greek and Latin, and these,
Greek especially, soon proved hard sledding. The instructor, Mr.
Simkins--or "Uncle Sim," as he was called--was no easy taskmaster. He
entertained a profound reverence for Aristotle and Vergil and Cicero
and Homer and all the others, and failed to understand why his classes
thought them tiresome and, sometimes, dry. His very enthusiasm,
however, made him easy to impose on, and many a fellow received
good marks merely because he simulated a fervid interest. But Clint
was either too honest or possessed too little histrionic talent to attempt
that plan, and by the time the Fall term was a week old, he, together
with many another, was just barely keeping his head above water. He
confessed discouragement to his room-mate one evening. Amy was
sympathetic but scarcely helpful.
"It's tommyrot, that's what it is," Amy said with conviction. "What
good does it do you to know Greek, anyway? I'll bet you anything that
Uncle Sim himself couldn't go to Athens tomorrow and order a cup of
coffee and a hard-boiled egg! Or, if he did order them, he'd get a
morning newspaper and toothpick. Last Spring I was in the
boot-blacking emporium in the village one afternoon and Horace came
in to get his shoes shined. There--"
"Who is Horace!" asked Clint dejectedly.

"Mr. Daley; modern languages; you have him in French. Well, there
was a notice stuck on the wall across the place. It was in Greek and I
couldn't make anything out of it at all and I asked Horace what it said.
Of course he just read it right off, with a mere passing glance; did he
not? Yes, he did not! He hemmed and hawed and muttered and finally
said he couldn't make out the second word. I told him that was my
trouble, too. Then we asked the Greek that runs the place and he told us
it said that shines on Sundays and holidays were ten cents. Of course,
Horace isn't a specialist in Greek, but still he's been through college,
and what I say is--"
"I don't believe the men who wrote the stuff really understood it," said
Clint.
"Oh, they understood a little of it, all right. They could sign their names,
probably. The only consolation I find is this, Clint. A couple of
hundred years from now, when everyone is talking Esperanto or some
other universal language, the kids will have to study English. Can't you
see them grinding over the Orations of William Jennings Bryan and
wondering why the dickens anyone ever wanted to talk such a silly
language? That's when we get our revenge, Clint. We won't be around
to see it, but it'll be there."
Clint had to smile at the picture Amy drew, but he didn't find as much
consolation as Amy pretended to, and Xenophon didn't come any easier.
He was heartily glad when the study-hour came to an end and he could
conscientiously close his books.
The termination of that hour was almost invariably announced by the
dismal squawking of Penny Durkin's fiddle. Sometimes it was to be
heard in the afternoon, but not always, for Penny was a very busy youth.
He was something of a "shark" at lessons, was a leading light in the
Debating Circle and conducted a second-hand business in all sorts of
things from a broken tooth-mug to a brass bed. Penny bought and sold
and traded and, so rumour declared, made enough to nearly pay his
tuition each year. If you wanted a rug or a table or a chair or a picture
or a broken-down bicycle or a pair of football pants you went to Penny,
and it was a dollar to a dime that Penny either had in his possession, or

could take you to someone else who had, the very thing you were
looking for. If you paid cash you got it reasonably cheap--or you did if
you knew enough to bargain craftily--and if you wanted credit Penny
charged you a whole lot more and waited on you promptly for the
instalment at the first of each month. And besides these activities Penny
was a devoted student of music.
He was an odd-looking fellow, tall and thin, with a lean face from
which a pair of pale and near-sighted eyes peered forth from behind
rubber-rimmed spectacles. His hair was almost