“Pretty poor, Phil. And it’s hard to be poor, after having enjoyed plenty.”
“I can’t see that there’s any college career ahead of me, Mr. Ferguson,” said the boy, trying to keep back the tears that rushed unbidden to his eyes.
“Nor I, Phil. College is a fine thing for a young fellow, but under some circumstances work is better.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, then?” demanded the boy, indignantly.
“There was no use in discouraging you, or interrupting your work at high school. I consider it is best for you to graduate there, especially as that is liable to end your scholastic education. The time is so near—less than three months—that to continue your studies would make little difference in deciding your future, and the diploma will be valuable to you.”
No one but Phil will ever know what a terrible disappointment he now faced. For years his ambition, fostered by his father, had been to attend college. All his boyish dreams had centered around making a record there. Phil was a student, but not one of the self-engrossed, namby-pamby kind. He was an athlete as well as a scholar, and led his high school class in all manly sports. At college he had determined to excel, both as a student and an athlete, and never had he dreamed, until now, that a college career would be denied him.
It took him a few minutes to crowd this intense disappointment into a far corner of his heart and resume the conversation. The lawyer silently watched him, his keen gray eyes noting every expression that flitted over the boy’s mobile features. Finally, Phil asked:
“Would you mind telling me just how much money was left, Mr. Ferguson?”
“The court costs in such cases are extremely high,” was the evasive reply. The lawyer did not seem to wish to be explicit, yet Phil felt he had the right to know.
“And there were your own fees to come out of it,” he suggested.