Junior had a roommate named Black. So he was called Blackie. Blackie had a nice mother who used to come to see him frequently. Junior took considerable interest in mothers, observed them closely when even the most observant of them were quite unaware of it. He approved of his roommate’s mother, despite her telling Blackie not to forget his rubbers, dear. Blackie glanced at Junior to see if he was listening. Junior pretended that he wasn’t.
“Aren’t mothers queer?” said Blackie after she had gone.
“Sure,” said Junior.
“Always worrying about you. You know how it is.”
“Sure.”
“I bet your mother’s the same way.”
Junior hesitated. “My mother’s dead,” he said. “Bet I can beat you to the gate.” They raced and Junior beat him.
But he soon perceived that he would never make an athlete, and so he was a nonentity all through the early part of his school career, one of the little fellows in the lower form, thin legs and squeaky voice.
The things on the walls of Junior’s room—spears, arrows, shields, and an antelope head—first drew attention to Junior’s only distinction. That was why he had put them there.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said with some arrogance, after the expected admiration and curiosity had been elicited. “You just ought to see my father’s collection.” And this gave Junior his chance to tell about the collector. “These things—only some junk he didn’t want and sent to me.”