“It is one of the best schools in this country,” he declared. “My father said so.”
Captain Zelotes picked up a pencil on his desk and tapped his chin lightly with the blunt end. “Um,” he mused. “Well, I presume likely he knew all about it.”
“He knew as much as—most people,” with a slight but significant hesitation before the “most.”
“Um-hm. Naturally, havin' been schooled there himself, I suppose.”
“He wasn't schooled there. My father was a Spaniard.”
“So I've heard. . . . Well, we're kind of off the subject, ain't we? Let's leave your father's nationality out of it for a while. And we'll leave the school, too, because no matter if it was the best one on earth you couldn't go there. I shouldn't feel 'twas right to spend as much money as that at any school, and you—well, son, you ain't got it to spend. Did you have any idea what your father left you, in the way of tangible assets?”
“No. I knew he had plenty of money always. He was one of the most famous singers in this country.”
“Maybe so.”
“It WAS so,” hotly. “And he was paid enough in one week to buy this whole town—or almost. Why, my father—”
“Sshh! Sssh!”