“Where was it, old Book Gobbler?” cried Dick. “Where was it?”
“It was in Hollinshead’s Chronicles,” returned the lad, coloring.
“You are right,” said Aunt Anne. “You would do better to read a little more yourself, Jack, than to laugh at Ned.”
“What’s the use, if I am going to West Point?” said Jack.
“You will find out, I fancy, when you get there,” remarked Rose. “I am told it is dreadful.”
“Well, there’s time enough to think about it,” returned Jack, with his usual philosophical calm. “I wish it wasn’t Sunday. Oh, dear!” and he groaned in anticipation of the dullness of the day.
“Jack!” exclaimed the mother. “Oh, Jack!”
“Well, you can’t go to church, and there’s no fishing; and, mother, you know you don’t like us to read novels on Sunday, and I’ve read voyages until I know all there are up here,—and I don’t see what a fellow is to do.”
“I shall read the service before you all scatter.”
“Well, that doesn’t take long.”