“No, sir. I used to go to a private classical school, and most of my time was given to languages and history.”
“Ah, yes. Well, you have had two study-hours to-day; what lessons have you now to prepare for to-morrow?”
“I’ve very little to do—just a bit of work in English literature.”
“Very well, then, can’t you walk home with me after school?”
Clark assented, and the teacher returned to his seat as the bell rang and the boys trooped noisily up the stairs.
In the long talk that Mr. Horton had with Clark that afternoon, he learned the bitter secret in regard to his father—now, alas, a secret no longer—and felt his heart go out to the lad who was bearing so heavy a burden on his brave young shoulders.
“You would be sure to hear it after a while, Mr. Horton,” Clark had said, “and I’d rather tell it to you myself just as it is.”
“And that is why you and your mother came here to live,” said the teacher, voice and eyes full of sympathy he knew not how to speak.
“Yes, sir. An old friend of mother’s got this place for me. I’d learned stenography just because I liked it, not expecting ever to use it to earn my living.”
“And has your mother no means?” questioned Mr. Horton gently.