“Well, you got there, father!” the boy burst out with feeling. “By Jove, there aren't many of them know the things you know!”
“I know enough to know what I don't know,” said the old man, a little sadly. “I know enough to know what I missed. I wanted to go to college. No one will ever know how I wanted to! I began to think I'd never feel right about it. But I have a notion that when I sit there to-night listening to you, Fritz, knowing that you're speaking for two hundred boys, half of whose fathers did go to college, I think I'm going to feel better about it then.”
The boy turned away. Something in the kindly words seemed as the cut of a whip across his face.
“Well, Fritz,” his father continued, getting into his coat, “I'll be going downtown. Leave you to put on an extra flourish or two.” He laughed in proud parental fashion. “Anyway, I have some things to see about.”
The boy stood up. “Father, I have something to tell you.” He said it shortly and sharply.
The father stood there, puzzled.
“You won't like my oration to-night, father.”
And still the man did not speak. The words would not have bothered him much—it was the boy's manner.
“In fact, father, you're going to be desperately disappointed in it.”
The dull red was creeping into the man's cheeks. He was one to have little patience with that thing of not doing one's work. “Why am I going to be disappointed? This is no time to shirk! You should—”