You see, it takes a good deal of a fellow to stand such a complete transplanting. I hated the paper shades in my bedroom, tied up with a cord, and the Nottingham curtains, and the springs that sank in the middle. I hated the respectable Brussels carpet in the best room, and the red rocking-chairs on the porch. I hated the hot, sleepless nights and the blazing, drowsy days.
Oh, I tell you, I had a glorious grouch!
I didn’t exactly hate the squirming children, for some of them began to show signs of almost human intelligence after they got used to me, and that did win me; but I hated that little schoolroom where the flies buzzed loudly all day long on the streaky panes. With deadly hatred I hated it.
I got to feeling very badly treated. What did my father suppose such commonplace discomforts were going to do for me? What part had a summer like this in the life and work that were to be mine? I lost that comfortable little feeling of advantage over life. I mislaid my consciousness of the silver spoon. In about three weeks it seemed as if I’d always taught summer-school at Jericho, and might have to keep on.
Oh, well!—I was hot and sore. Everybody has been hot and sore some time or other, I suppose. The minute description can be omitted. But I don’t know whether everybody with a grievance gets so badly twisted up in it as I do.
These emotions reached their climax one muggy, sultry July day as I plodded, moist and unhappy, back from the schoolhouse. I wiped my forehead, gritted my teeth, and vowed I would not stand the whole situation another twenty-four hours. I’d resign my position, wire dad, and take a train for somewhere out West in the mountains. If I had to make good on my own hook in three months, I’d at least do it in a cool place, at work of my selecting. The challenged party ought to have the choice of weapons.
My room was intolerably stuffy, so I came downstairs reluctantly and sat on the front steps. There was a wide outlook, for the house stood on a ridge of land that broke the flat prairie like a great welt. Old Miles was there, watching a heavy cloud-bank off in the southwest. Those clouds had been fooling around every evening for a week, but nothing ever came of it. The longer the drought, the harder it is to break.
I made some caustic remark about the weather as I sat down. Probably I looked cross enough to bite the poker.
Miles looked at me and then looked away quickly, as if it really was not decent to be observing a fellow in such a rage. I knew the look, for I’ve felt that way myself about other men.
'Yes, bad weather,' he said. 'When it gets too hot and dry for corn, it’s too hot and dry for folks. And then—it always rains. It’ll rain to-night. You wait and see.'