“Then the real ‘me’ takes a fresh grip and holds fast. I slip and slide a little, but dig my feet in the stones, and pray—”
“I know. I know,” nodded Gorgas.
“—Then I throw the thong over my shoulders,” Allen went on, “turn my back on the fiend and drag that other part of ‘me,’ heart, stomach, and all, straight up on firm ground. Every step’s a better one.”
“My legs get away from me,” Gorgas commented ruefully. “They just took me off to Boston. And I’m not a bit sorry—and that’s funny, too.”
Seventeen was the hardest year. The grown-up gowns were not lost on him. “Attire of the devil’s making,” he wrote. “A snare of the Old One,—Retro, Sathanas! Get thee behind me. Not a minute before the hour set, or all my life I shall feel depraved.”
The Old One argued with him. He gave a part of the debate:
“Old One: Why grow solemn-faced over so simple a matter! She’s a woman and you’re a man.
“Allen B.: She’s a child and I am a man, thank the Lord, full-grown and in control of himself.
“Old One: (sneering) Are you a man? Oh, no, you’re not. You’re neither male nor female. You’re a pedagogue.
“A. B.: (wincing) Touchez bien! A hit! Whatever I am, I am going to be decent.