“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Doddridge, slowly.
He was a large, spare man, with a swarthy skin, a wide mouth, a dark, steady eye, and a long jaw. There was an appearance of power and will about him which was well borne out by his character. He had been a systematic though not a laborious student, and while maintaining a stand comfortably near the head of the class, had taken a course in the Law School during Senior year, doing his double duties with apparent ease. He was a constant speaker in the debates of the Linonian Society, and the few who attended the meetings of that moribund school of eloquence spoke of Doddridge’s speeches as oases in the waste of forensic dispute, being always distinguished by vigor and soundness, though without any literary quality, such as Clay’s occasional performances had. Berkeley, who covered his own lazy and miscellaneous reading with the mask of eclecticism, and proclaimed his disbelief in a prescribed course of study, was wont to say that Doddridge was the only man that he knew who was using the opportunities given by the college for all they were worth, and really getting out of “the old curric” that mental discipline which it professed to impart. Though rather taciturn, he was not unsocial, and was fond of his pipe in the evening. He liked a joke, especially if it was of a definite kind, and at some one’s expense touching a characteristic weakness of the man. There was at bottom something a little hard about him, though every one agreed that he was a good fellow. We all felt sure that he would make a distinguished success in practical life; and we doubtless thought—if we thought about it at all—that with his clear foresight and habits of steady work, he had already decided upon his career. His words were therefore a surprise.
“What! you don’t mean to say that you are going to drift, Dodd?” inquired Armstrong.
“Drift? Well, no; not exactly. I shall keep my steering apparatus well in hand, but I haven’t decided yet what port to run for. There’s no hurry. I have an uncle in the Northwest in the lumber business, who would give me a chance. I may go out there and look about awhile at first. If it doesn’t promise much, there is the law to fall back upon. My father has a fruit farm at Byzantium in western New York,—where I come from, you know,—and he is part owner of the Byzantium weekly ‘Bugle.’ I’ve no doubt I could get on as editor, and go to the Legislature. Or I might do worse than begin on the farm; farming is looking up in that section. I may try several things till I find the right one.”
“That’s queer,” said Armstrong. “I thought you had made up your mind to enter the Columbia Law School.”
“Hardly,” answered Doddridge, “though I may, after all. The main point is to keep yourself in readiness for any work, and take the best thing that turns up—like Berkeley here,” he added, drily.
Armstrong looked at his watch and remarked that it was nearly midnight.
“Boys,” said I, “in fifteen years from to-night let’s have a supper here and see how each man of us has worked out his theory of life, and how he likes it as far as he has got.”
“Oh, give us twenty,” said Doddridge, laughing, as we all arose and prepared to break up. “No one accomplishes anything in this latitude before he is forty.”