“Mortimer!” quivered his mother. “From Aspley Place? Your father’s home? Never!” Then, with an effort, she became calm. Rising, as if both hurt and indignant, she exclaimed:
“My son, I am your mother and your guardian. I have my own plans for your future—your father’s plans. From now you will dismiss these ideas. I shall countermand your foolish purchase or ask your uncle to do so. This summer you will spend with me. You will return to your school and then to the University. When, in time, you graduate and are able to do so you will return here and assume charge of the patrimony bequeathed you by your father. Meanwhile, Mr. Green will remain in charge.”
And leaving Morey standing crestfallen among the jumble of books and papers, his mother walked sadly from the room.
It was the first time Mortimer had ever been balked in his life. For six months he had thought and dreamed of nothing else. His pride was hurt, too, for to his cousin Jack, in Hammondsport, he had outlined carefully the exact details of his future plans. He had managed to secure an invitation from Jack Marshall to visit Hammondsport soon after his investigation into aeroplane and airship affairs had revealed to him that in that little town Inventor Curtiss had his motor shop and aeroplane factory and that other balloon manufacturers and experimenters had collected there in sufficient numbers to make it the aeronautical center of America. There he had seen real dirigible balloons, had met and talked with Carl Meyers, the oldest balloon navigator in the country, had witnessed flights of the Curtiss aeroplane, had gazed upon the renowned Professor Graham Bell, had lounged for days about the mysterious and fascinating shops and factories, and, best of all and most unforgettable, had tasted the joys of gliding on the kites and planes of the various aeronautical experts.
Then he recalled the mocking laugh of his uncle.
He was a stubborn boy, but—he did not know whether he was a disobedient one. In all his life he had never been tested. Flushed and sick with disappointment he caught up his precious books and circulars and was banging them into the trunk when the door opened and Amos stuck his head into the room:
“Marse Morey, yo’ ma says yo’ all gwine ober to Marse Major Carey’s soon as yo’ has yo’ supper. An’ yo’s to put on yo’ bestest cloe’s an’ slick up.”
Bang! went “Aeroplanes, their Manufacture and Use.” It missed the colored boy’s head and crashed against the door jamb.
“Here, you black rascal,” shouted Morey, red in the face and full of anger, “come back here and give me my knife, you thief!”