“No, sir! The sooner a man gets into harness, the better. I’ve wasted enough time in the last four years. The longer a man loafs around in this old place, under pretense of reading and that kind of thing, the harder it is for him to take hold.”
Armstrong was a rosy little man, with yellow hair and light eyes. His expression was one of irresolute good nature. His temper was sanguine and expansive, and he had been noted in college for anything but concentration of pursuit. He was gregarious in his habits, susceptible and subject to sudden enthusiasms. His good nature made him a victim to all the bores and idlers in the class, and his room became a favorite resort for men on their way to recitation, being on the ground floor and near the lecture-rooms. They would drop in about half an hour before the bell rang, and make up a little game of “penny ante” around Armstrong’s center-table. In these diversions he seldom took part, as he had given it out publicly that he was “studying for a stand”; but his abstinence from the game in no wise damped the spirits of his guests. Occasionally his presence would receive the notice of the company somewhat as follows:
No. 1. “Make less noise, fellows: Charley is digging out that Puckle lesson.”
No. 2. “You go into the bedroom, Charley, and shut the door, and then you won’t be bothered by the racket.”
No. 3. “Oh, hang the Puckle! Come and take a hand, Charley. We’ll let you in this pool without an ante.”
No. 4. “Why don’t you get a new pack of cards, Charley? It’s a disgrace to you to keep such a dirty lot of old pasteboards for your friends.”
In face of which abuse, Armstrong was as helpless as Telemachus under the visitation of the suitors. The resolute air with which he now declared his intention of grappling with life had therefore something comic about it, and Berkeley said, rather incredulously:
“I suppose you’ll keep up your reading along with your law?”
“No,” replied the other; “Themis is a jealous mistress. No; I’m going to bone right down to it.”