“It’s this cough that hangs on so, and I’m so tired all the time, I can hardly move.”
“The good air of Aintab will make you feel better, and we’ll all look after you. Take my arm to go upstairs, and lean hard on me.”
On rejoining their classmates they heard an unexpected piece of news: Professor Hagopian had sent in his resignation, desiring to take a few years’ rest. His place was filled by Mr. Hairemian, who thus became proctor of the Junior class.
The first recitation was scarcely over when the boys poured into the hall to see if the postman had come. The mail was brought to Aintab only on Fridays, and professors and students, Armenians and Americans, awaited this great day with equal impatience. Twenty times during the day the boys would run to the porter and ask:
“Posta geldiné? (Has the mail come?)”
“Yok, yok, Effendis.”
But this time it really had come. A cry rang through all the buildings:
“Posta gelmidé! Posta gelmidé! (The mail has come!)”
Boys, big and little, came running downstairs. Badvili Melikian opened the bag and distributed the letters scattered over the table, with a word for each: