“All right,” said George. “If you people don’t find it interesting, well, you’ve brought it on yourselves. Surprising as it may seem, I was born at the usual age at ‘Hilltop,’ that big whitehouse on the ridge, overlooking the other side of the reservation. Father, you know, was an inventor. He was always an extremely reticent man and I realized as I grew older that he was very much of a recluse. He never spoke to Mother and me about his inventions, but they must have brought him a good income. We kept up that big place and had plenty of servants, although we entertained very little. After I got through the nursery stage, I had a French governess and later a tutor. Mother and I were great pals. She must have been a busy woman, for she superintended the running of our model farm and dairy, but she was never too occupied with her duties but what she had time to romp and play with me. I know now that she must have led a very lonely life.
“My father spent nine-tenths of the time in his laboratory and workshop. He did not encourage friends or acquaintances and he never went anywhere with Mother. He had but one hobby, his work, and although I know he was very fond of us, the work came first. Even later, when I grew up, he never seemed like the fathers of other fellows I knew. It was his reticence and absolute absorption in those inventions of his that kept us practically strangers.
“Five years ago last spring, when I was twelve, Mother died. Her heart had never been strong—her going took the only person I really loved away from me.”
George was unable to go on for a moment, and Betty caught his hand under the table and held it. The tenderhearted little girl was very near to tears. George smiled manfully, then went on with his recital.
“Sorry,” he apologized for his show of feeling, “I never quite got over losing Mother. My governess had been replaced by a tutor a couple of years before this, but now Father decided I was to go to boarding school. So I was packed off to Lawrenceville, a homesick, lonely little kid if there ever was one. I’d never been thrown with boys of my own age before—I guess I was pretty much of a young prig—but as the poet says, ‘I soon learned different.’
“During the holidays I used mostly to come back to Hilltop. Father never made a kick if I brought fellows back with me. We had the run of the place, which he kept up just as it had been when Mother was alive. One thing was understood though: he must not be annoyed by my guests. There were saddle horses, for he rode regularly every morning before breakfast; cars to drive, and he also belonged to the club over at Bedford, although I don’t think he had ever seen the place. He gave me plenty of money to spend and always allowed me to accept invitations from other fellows to visit at their homes. Altogether I had a pretty good time. The only trouble was that Father never took any real interest in me. I was lucky enough to get my ‘L’ at football, but he never came down to Lawrenceville—not even to see a game.”
“I’ve got your number, now!” cried Terry, interrupting him. “You’re Stoker Conway! I thought I’d seen you before. Say, Bill, this guy is too modest. ‘Lucky to make his letter,’ I don’t think! Conway captained the Lawrenceville team last season. My cousin, Ed Durham (they call him Bull Durham down there) played left tackle. I went down with Dad and Uncle Harry last fall to see the Princeton freshman-Lawrenceville game.”
“I remember your telling about it,” said Dorothy. “Somebody, I think, made a sixty-yard run for a touchdown.”
“I’ll bet George did it,” piped up Betty.
“He certainly did! And let me tell you, Angelface, that your boy friend was the fastest halfback Lawrenceville or any other school has seen in years. All American stuff—that’s what he is. Hard luck you didn’t get to college this year, old man.”