“N—no; it’s—it’s the other things, you see: clothes and belonging to things, like the Shooting Club, and—— Oh, I don’t know; there’s always something!”
“I see. In other words, the price of admission is what you expected,” said John, “but the figures on the menu are fierce. Well, it’s all part of the programme, Phil. It’s a sort of course in practical economy, you know, in which you’re your own instructor and in which an E is the average mark; a course in which, strange to say, lectures follow examinations.”
“That’s the worst of it,” said Phillip. “I’d ought to be lectured, but I won’t be. Mamma will tell Margey that it was ridiculous of them to expect me to get along until Christmas on so little, and will be in an awful fidget until I assure her that I haven’t suffered any privations. I—I wish father had lived.”
“You’re a queer beggar, Phil. But, I say, I wouldn’t—er—bother your sister and your mother too much about money affairs. If you need any I’ll always be glad to loan, Phil. And, honestly, I feel rather guilty about you, old man. You know I undertook to sort of keep an eye on you, and I haven’t done it. I daresay I might have saved some of that money to you if I’d been around.”
“Thank you,” answered Phillip, “but I’d rather not borrow from anybody, John. I’ve written home and told Margey what a blamed fool I’ve been and all that, and I reckon I’ll have some money as soon as I need it. It isn’t that that’s troubling me. But—but how shall I get along for the next three years and a half without spending a sight more than I’m worth? If I was being educated for something, you see—if I was going to be a doctor or a lawyer or anything practical it wouldn’t be so hopeless. But I’m just ‘going through Harvard,’ as my father did, merely because—because he wanted it.”
“But, great Scott, Phil, you’ve only begun! There’s time yet to decide on a profession. Why not be a lawyer?”
“I couldn’t,” answered Phillip decisively. “I haven’t the least aptitude for it, John. No, I’d rather be a good farmer than a poor lawyer. And I reckon that’s what it’ll come to. After all, I might do worse. Elaine can be made to pay right well, I reckon, and I can find plenty of work there. It’s a healthful, wide-awake sort of life, with plenty of enjoyment, and I reckon it’s about the only sort I’m fit for.”
“‘Blessed is that man who has found his work,’” quoted John. “And, for my part, I can’t imagine a more ideal existence than farming a place like Elaine—or even a good deal smaller place—as long as it could be made to pay for itself and supply a few luxuries. I don’t think I’d trouble about a profession, Phil. Be a farmer and thank the Lord you live in a State where you can be that and a gentleman at the same time. And don’t think for a moment that a college education is wasted on you. It’ll pay for itself in the long run; it would if you were only going to lay sewer pipe all the rest of your days.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Phillip doubtfully.