"That is, if he wants to get drunk," said the doctor, "but I don't see why any man wants to do that. I don't, I'm sure; I never was drunk in my life."
"There are better men, sir, who cannot say as much," was Old Master's reply, and the doctor pretended to laugh, but I could see that the remark so truthfully delivered by Old Master cut him deeply. I was waiting for the conversation to become earnest, so that I could slip away unobserved, but the talk began to lag, and Mars. Bob must have divined my thoughts for he strove to enliven it.
"Father," said he, "I am ready now to take up law at any time you may suggest. I think that I have had enough of miscellaneous training—I have read nearly every book in your library."
"Take your degree, sir; take your degree," Old Master replied.
"That, sir, is a mere matter of form."
"And a form to be observed, sir—to be observed."
"Yes," said Mars. Bob, "but my reading teaches me that an orator can be trained down to a point too fine—it may weaken his passion, dim his fire with too much judgment, hem him in with too much criticism and compel him to dodge. I think that it was Greek art, sir, that kept Ben Johnson from creating great characters. The perfection of Greek form rendered it impossible for him to give us anything save talking moralities."
"Sophistry!" Old Master shouted, and upon the young man he turned with such a storm that I found my opportunity to escape.