“I’ve often heard your father say,” continued mother, “that the greatest test of character is defeat—that every manly man is a good loser. Have you already forgotten those lines of Browning which Mr. Chester repeated last night?”
“No, mother, I haven’t,” I replied, and I flung my arms around her neck and hugged her tight. “Only, just at first, it was more than I could bear. But I’m going to remember them, mother dear—I’m going to be a good loser.”
“If you learn only that,” said mother, smoothing back my hair and kissing me, “this search will be worth something to you, whether you find the treasure or not. It will be a test of character, as well as of patience and ingenuity.”
“Yes, mother; but—but please don’t tell Dick about the desk—not just yet.”
“Very well,” mother promised, understanding. “And now straighten up your hair, for it must be nearly time for lunch,” and kissing me again, she hurried away down-stairs.
Dear mother!
I went over to the old dresser, and resting my arms on top of it, stared steadily into the glass.
“Cecil Truman,” I said, sternly, to my reflected self, “you’re not going to be a coward any more, nor a whiney baby. You’re going to be a good loser. But you’re going to fight!” I added. “You’re going to fight for all you’re worth!” And somewhat comforted, I proceeded to do my hair.
Lunch was ready when I got down-stairs again, and a moment later, Dick appeared around a corner of the house, looking so important and mysterious that, but for my chastened mood, I should have been tempted to box his ears. He ate his food with disgraceful haste, scarcely speaking a word, and snatched up his cap again the moment he had finished.
“You won’t need me this afternoon, will you, mother?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.