“Wherever I can get any. From the library at Mellborough, or from Mr. Sands, most of them.” He laughed again and repeated my words, as though amused.
“No wonder you’re behind the times,” he remarked. “Now, shall I lend you some books?”
I shook my head feebly, for I was longing to accept his offer.
“I’m afraid your sort of books would not suit me,” I said. “I don’t want to be converted to your way of thinking. It seems to me that there is such a thing as overtraining of the mind.”
“So you look upon me as a sort of Mephistopheles, eh? Well, I’ve no ambition to make a convert of you. To be a pessimist is to be——”
“An unhappy man,” I interrupted eagerly, “and a very narrow-minded one, too. It is a city-born creed. No one could live out here in the country and espouse it!”
“Boy, how old are you?” he asked abruptly.
“Seventeen next birthday, sir,” I answered.
“You have a glib tongue—the sign of an empty head, I fear.”
“Better empty than full of unhealthy philosophy,” I answered bluntly.