I could attempt duplicity, telling my mother I was still studying history, while actually preparing myself for some more attractive profession—the law, perhaps.
I could confess to her at once my failure of purpose, ask her forgiveness, for disappointing her and flawing her grand scheme, and try to begin afresh in another field.
Or I could forge ahead with history, compelling myself grimly to take an interest, cramping and paining myself so that my mother's design would be complete.
None of them seemed desirable paths to take. I brooded over it, and was weary and apprehensive by the time I arrived at our farm.
The first of my brothers I saw was Mark. He sat on the front porch of the big house, reading a book which I recognized at once and with some surprise as Volume I of Churchill. He looked up at me and smiled feebly.
I frowned. "I didn't expect to find you here, Mark. According to the local sports pages the Braves are playing on the Coast this week. How come you're not with them?"
His voice was a low murmur. "Because they gave me my release," he said.
"What?"
He nodded. "I'm washed up at 21. They made me a free agent; that means I can hook up with any team that wants me."