“Does he so?” Mr. Faber set his glasses on his nose, and beamed at him over them. The boys at the Pemberton School always protested that this was the only use they could be put to on the master's countenance. “Well, now, Jasper, I really believe I am justified in entertaining a very strong hope of Pickering's future career. And I see no reason why he should not be ready for college with you, and without conditions, if he will only keep his ambition alive and active, now it is aroused.”
“May I tell him so?” cried Jasper, almost beside himself with joy. “Oh, may I, Mr. Faber?”
“Why, that is what I called you in here for, Jasper,” said the master. “It seemed so very much better for him to hear it from a boy, for I remember my own boyhood, though so very long since; and the effect will, I feel sure, be much deeper than if Pickering hears it from me. He is very tired of this study, Jasper,” and Mr. Faber glanced around at the four walls, and again came that grim smile. “And even to hear a word of commendation, it might not be so pleasing to be called in. So away with you. At the proper time, I shall speak to him myself.”
Jasper, needing no second bidding, fled precipitately—dashed in again. “Beg pardon, I'd forgotten my books.” He seized them from the table, and made quick time tracking Pickering.
“Where is Pick?” rushing up to a knot of boys on a corner of the playground, just separating to go home.
“Don't know; what's up, King?”
“Can't stop,” said Jasper, flying back to the schoolroom. “I must get Pick.”
“Dodge has gone,” shouted a boy clearing the steps, who had heard the last words. So Jasper, turning again, left school and playground far behind, to run up the steps of the Cabot mansion.
“Pickering here?”
“Yes.” The butler had seen him hurrying over the stairs to his own room just five minutes ago. And in less than a minute Jasper was up in that same place.