The Jester of St. Timothys | Page 4

that they had been left penniless; Irving sometimes suspected his uncle of parsimony, yet this was a trait so incongruous with Mr. Upton's genial nature that Irving never communicated the suspicion to his brother. Irving felt, too, that his uncle cared less for him than for Lawrence. Well, that was natural; Irving was humble there.
When the dean of the college had said that it would be inadvisable for Lawrence to make a start unless he had at least three hundred dollars at command, it had seemed to Irving a little narrow on his uncle's part not to have come forward at once with that sum. Instead he had merely given Lawrence the opportunity to work harder in the hay-field and so increase his small bank account. And it had soon become apparent to Irving that unless he and Lawrence could between them raise the money, they need not look to their uncle for help beyond that which he was already giving. Therefore Irving went into Mr. Beasley's store, and hoped daily for the letter which at last had come.
Day after day the two brothers worked together. Irving, quick, impatient, sometimes losing his temper; Lawrence, slow, calm, turning the edge of the teacher's sarcasm sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a quiet appeal. Irving always felt ashamed after these outbreaks and uneasily conscious that Lawrence conducted himself with greater dignity. And Lawrence forgot Irving's irritations in gratitude to him for his help. "It must be a trial to teach such a numskull," Lawrence thought; and at the end of one particularly hard day he undertook to console his brother by saying, "Never mind, Irv; it won't be long now before you have pupils who aren't country bumpkins and don't need to have things pounded into their heads with an axe."
It had been a rather savage remark that had called this out; Irving threw down his book and perching on the arm of his brother's chair, put his arm around his neck and begged his forgiveness.
"As if I could ever like to teach anybody else as much as I like to teach you!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Lawrence; I'll try to keep a little better grip on myself."
Sometimes it seemed to Irving odd that Lawrence should be so slow at his books; Irving did not fail to realize that with the neighbors or with strangers, in any gathering whatsoever, Lawrence was always quick, sympathetic, interested; he himself was the one who seemed dull and immature.
It had been so with him at college; he had been merely the student of books. Social life he had had none, and only now, with the difference between his brother and himself enforcing a clearer vision, had he become aware of some deficiency in his education. In silence he envied Lawrence and wished that he too possessed such winning and engaging traits.
He realized the contrast with especial keenness on the afternoon when he and Lawrence began their eastward journey. There was a party assembled at the station to see them off,--to see Lawrence off, as Irving reflected, for never on his own previous departures had he occasioned any such demonstration.
Lawrence was presented on the platform with various farewell gifts--a pair of knit slippers from Sally Buxton, who was the prettiest girl in the valley and who tried to slip them into his hand when no one else was looking, and blushed when Nora Carson unfeelingly called attention to her shy attempt; a pair of mittens from old Mrs. Fitch; a pocket comb and mirror from the Uptons' hired man; a paper bag of doughnuts from Mrs. Brumby.
There were no gifts for Irving; indeed, he had never cared or thought much, one way or the other, about any of these people clustered on the platform. Only this summer, seeing them so frequently in Mr. Beasley's store, he had felt the first stirrings of interest in them; now for the first time he was aware of a wistfulness because they did not care for him as they did for Lawrence.
Mr. Beasley came up to him. "So you're off--both of you. Funny thing--I guess from the looks of you two, if a stranger was to come along, he'd pick Lawrence out for the teacher and you for the schoolboy. Lawrence looks as old as you, and handles himself more grown up, somehow."
"He's bigger," Irving sighed.
"Yes, 't ain't only that," drawled Mr. Beasley. "Though 't is a pity you're so spindling; good thing for a teacher to be able to lay on the switch good and hard when needed."
"I don't believe they punish with the switch at St. Timothy's."
"Then I guess they don't learn the boys much. How you going to keep order among boys if you don't use the switch?"
At that moment the train came whistling round the bend. Irving