“He wasn’t telling me about it at all,” protested the boy. “I was just there and heard it. I wanted to tell him that you were our coach here, but I didn’t know him.”
“It was just as well, then, under the circumstances,” laughed the instructor. “What was the chap’s name; do you know?”
“Yes, sir, it was Higgins; a big, tall——”
“Mortimer Higgins! Is that so? I haven’t heard of him for a long time. We called him ‘Mort’ at college. And, by the way, if you still want a story I can tell you one, and it’s about this same Mort Higgins. It isn’t exactly a funny story, but it’s a true one; and if you don’t believe it, why, Strafford here will show you the hero!”
“That’s fine!”
“Go ahead, sir!”
“Shut up, you fellows! Mr. Ames is going to tell a story!”
“Well, I’ll try and make it short,” began the instructor, “for it’s getting along toward dinner time. Let’s see, now. Mort was in the class ahead of me, and I never knew him until my sophomore year. He was a junior then. I wonder if I can describe him to you, so that you’ll see him as I did. He was tall—a good six feet, I guess—and a bit lanky and ungainly. He came from one of the Carolinas—North, I think, and was sort of slow and careless in his movements, used to throw his shoulders all around when he walked, and when he shook hands with you, you felt as though your fingers were tied to a pump handle and the pump was going until it ran down. He had black hair, coarse and long and all rumpled up. It used to fall down over his forehead, and he had a way of brushing it aside with his big hand as though he was trying to dash his brains out. He had a long nose and a long neck, and he always wore those turndown collars that made his neck look longer than it really was. His eyes were gray, I think, and were always laughing at each other; at least, that’s what I used to think. His mouth was big and sort of—what shall I say?—sort of loose, and altogether he was about as homely a chap as there was in college. But his homeliness was of the kind that attracted you. When you first saw him you said to yourself: ‘My, isn’t he homely! Talk about your mud fences—’ Then you looked again and began to think: ‘Well, now, he may be homely, but bless me if it isn’t becoming to him!’
“He had a queer sort of a drawl that made his most serious remarks sound funny; Mort only had to open his mouth to start you smiling. He was awfully good-hearted and good-natured; he’d do anything for you if he didn’t absolutely dislike you; and I don’t believe Mort Higgins ever really disliked anyone. He was one of the sort that can always find good in folks. No matter how mean a chap was, Mort could always point out a few good things about him. And, on the other hand, I don’t suppose there was a fellow in college who didn’t like Mort—whether they knew him or not. But most everybody did know him. Mort never waited for introductions. If he ran up against a fellow and had anything to say he said it; and no one ever resented it; you couldn’t with Mort Higgins. You only had to glance at him to see that he was simply bubbling over with human kindness.