"Luncheon is at—?"
"Two o'clock," said dad.
Dad went into the house, and Twigg put a gray felt hat on his head and strode off down the drive. I sat on the porch rail and watched him. He looked about five feet eight inches, and was broad across the shoulders. He had a good walk. I slouched when I walked. After he was out of sight I rather wished I'd gone along. There wasn't anything particular to do at home, and I could have told him about the other tutors; there's some things that dad doesn't know.
I found Twigg kept a diary. He went to the city on the Wednesday afternoon after he came, and I rubbered around to see what I could find. The diary was in his table drawer. It was awful dull rot until I got to the last page or two. The day before he'd written a lot about me. This was it; I copied it:
"June 1st.
"Fourth day at Braemere. First desire to throw it up and acknowledge defeat quite gone. Am determined to see it through. I think I can win. At all events the thing won't lack interest. Can't flatter myself that I've made much headway. R. is like a rhinoceros. Can't find a vulnerable spot anywhere. He seems morally calloused. I say seems because I can scarcely believe that a boy of sixteen can really be as absolutely unmoral as he appears. Perhaps, eventually, I will find an Achilles' heel.
"Mr. Dale stands by his agreement. He never offers to interfere. So much the better. Mr. D.'s attitude toward R. is humorous as well as lamentable. He views the boy as though he were entirely irresponsible for his being. It is plain that he sees no connection between the boy's extraordinary character and his own; yet they are alike in many particulars; one could almost express my meaning by saying that R. is his father in an uncultivated state. Mr. D. ascribes the boy's faults to the other side of the house; he is convinced that the ungovernable temper and lack of moral sense are unfortunate inheritances from the late Mrs. D. Probably this is true in a measure. R. was the only child. The mother died at his birth. Mr. D, returned to this country when R. was four years old, and purchased this estate. Here the boy has grown up practically neglected. During twelve years Mr. D. has been out of the country the better part of eight. The boy has been left to the care of servants. For the past three years he has been in the hands of tutors, whose periods of service ran from one week to three months. I am the seventh in line to attempt the work.
"Physically R. is in good shape. He is fond of outdoor life; likes horses, dogs and animals generally; rides well; shoots and fishes. Mentally he is decidedly above normal, but quite untrained. Hates study. Would grade about third year in Latin school. I shall begin at the bottom with him. It's going to be a hard pull, but I'm going to win out."
I was going to empty the ink bottle over the pages; but I knew if I did he'd hide the book or lock it up, and I wanted to see what else he'd write. So I put it back in the drawer. I was sure I'd have him done to a turn in a month. But it was going to take longer than with the other fools, though.
"That'll do," said Twigg. "You haven't studied a lick, have you?"