“Be a good boy, Walter,” was his mother’s last reminder. About fifty had preceded it, but she kept this as the last. The next minute, there were two solemn faces on the platform of a country station, gazing intently at a car window that moved off rapidly and framed but for a moment a young, eager, ambitious, hopeful face.
Walter’s stay at Franklin Academy was not an eventful one outwardly. There was the usual course of instruction for a boy of sixteen, and Walter acquitted himself creditably. There was the usual proportion of “bad boys and small scrapes,” but Walter had no affinity for them and was known as a warm–hearted, enthusiastic youth, but not at all as a wild one. He gained some note as a fine gymnast. Day after day the academy bell tinkled out its mild warnings that study or recitation hours had arrived, and day after day, the same flock of boys and girls passed along the shaded walks traversing the academy yard. Outwardly, as already asserted, Walter’s academy course was without special incident. In the boy’s personal private history though, a very important corner was turned. That which led to the turn was singular also.
It was “composition day” in the academy, and various young essayists had read their opinions upon “School days,” “A Summer landscape,” and “George Washington.” Then came May Elliott’s piece of pen–work. May was not very generally known by the students. Her home was not in town, and the people with whom she boarded lived two miles away, so that the students did not see very much of her apart from her class hours. Although not pretty, yet her face interested you. Her blue eyes had a certain bright, positive look, as if she had something to say to you, and they arrested your attention. The subject of her composition was this, “What are we living for?” Her course of thought was to specify the aims of different people in life, their worthiness and unworthiness; and then she closed in this fashion: “The life that does not take into account the need of those about us, that does not take into account another life, that does not take God into account, is making,—”
Here May looked up in her bright, positive way. It was a chance look that she gave in the direction of the north–east rather than the north–west corner of the schoolroom. “Making—a serious mistake,” said May. In the north–east corner sat two students on opposite sides of the same aisle, Walter Plympton and Chauncy Aldrich. Each student said, “Does she mean me?” May Elliott did not mean either individual. It was a chance movement of her eyes, but like many of our movements that without intent are very significant in their results, the look set two young men to thinking. After school, they discussed the merits of May’s theme and treatment. Chauncy was the first speaker. He was a very forcible looking young man, one who seemed to come at you and collide with you, although he might be a hundred feet off. He brushed up his hair in a mighty roll above his forehead, and that gave his head the look of a battering–ram. He was nicknamed “Solomon,” as he talked and acted as if he carried more native and more acquired wisdom in his head than all the students, all the teachers, and all the trustees of Franklin Academy bunched together. And yet he was rather liked in school, as he had a bright, pleasant face, was generally smiling, and combined with a really selfish nature, an apparent readiness to help everybody that came along.
“Walter,” said Chauncy, as they went away from the academy together, “What do you think of May Elliott’s composition?”
“I thought it was quite good. Anyway she looked over in my corner as if she meant me.”
“That’s what I thought. I didn’t know but she was looking at me, as much as to say, ‘Chauncy, this is meant for you.’ However, Miss Elliott, you may keep looking all day, and I shall only take what I please of it, and you may dispose of the rest in what market you please.” Here Chauncy pushed back his hat; and his front knob of hair came into prominence, and looked very belligerent, as if warning Miss Elliott to be careful how she threw her ink–arrows in that direction.
“Oh, I didn’t suppose she really meant anything personal, Chauncy.”
“Perhaps not; but my motto is to be on the lookout, and not take people as meaning to give you a higher per cent than human nature is inclined to allow you.”
Chauncy was professedly preparing himself for a “business life,” and terms like “per cent,” “market,” “stock,” were favorite words in his vocabulary. The wise man now resumed his conversation.