Little beast that Ted was, he took upon himself great credit for his humiliation and acted like a perfect cad for the rest of the evening, starting delighted giggles whenever possible by brilliant remarks about his backwoodsman.
Later, as Ted and his fair companion were walking down Main Street on the way to her home, they met a little rat-eyed "townie" by the name of Dick Cooke whom Ted had thrashed a week before, for trying to steal his coat from a locker in the gym. He made an insulting remark to the girl and started to run. Seeing, as Ted believed, a cheap chance to play the hero, he piled after him. He only went a few feet, then turned and from out of the shadows of one of those old houses, four of his cronies lit into Ted.
Ted went down with a crash, his head hitting the sidewalk so hard he saw stars. Then he heard a shout, "Stick it out, Ted, I'm coming!" There was a rush of heavy feet and spat, spat, spat, came the sound of bare fists landing where they were aimed.
When Ted struggled to his feet his gawky roommate was standing beside him, and the "townies" were tearing down the street as though Old Nick himself were after them.
Ted didn't make a long speech of apology for his meanness to his roommate. It's only in stories a boy does that, but, believe me, he treated him differently.
And, would you believe it, in less than two months Aroostook was wading through the Andover line as if it were so much knitting yarn, and at mid-year Ted was taken into the Plata Dates on the sole recommendation of being his roommate.
A fellow by the name of Burns once said, "Rank is but the guinea's stamp"; now, I don't know much about guineas, but what I do know is that the grain on a side of sole leather don't tell the whole story. It's the sound, clean, close-knit fibers underneath that make it figure right.
Son, there's going to be a place at our Sunday dinner table for that "ham" of yours. Bring him home. I've a notion it's sweet pickle he needs to be cured in, not sour.
Your affectionate father,
William Soule.