“No, but you will before long.”
“When I am, I will study less. But you know, Uncle Hugh,” so the sexton instructed him to call him, “I want to make the most of my present advantages. Besides, there's a particular boy who thinks I am stupid. I want to convince him that he is mistaken.”
“You are a little ambitious, then, Paul?”
“Yes, but it isn't that alone. I know the value of knowledge, and I want to secure as much as I can.”
“That is an excellent motive, Paul.”
“Then you won't make me study less?”
“Not unless I see you are getting sick.”
Paul took good care of this. He knew how to play as well as to study, and his laugh on the playground was as merry as any. His cheerful, obliging disposition made him a favorite with his companions. Only George Dawkins held out; he had, for some reason, imbibed a dislike for Paul.
Paul's industry was not without effect. He gradually gained position in his class.
“Take care, Dawkins,” said one of his companions—the same one who had before spoken to Paul—“Paul Prescott will be disputing your place with you. He has come up seventeen places in a month.”