I thought I'd rescue you
from the ranks of the lowly and teach you golf and make a man of you
generally. Instead of that"--West gave one of his expressive
whistles--"instead of that, why, here you are turning me into a regular
'Masters Hall grind.' Thus do our brightest dreams fade. Well, I'm oil.
Don't forget the upper middle class meeting to-night. They're going to
vote on the Class Crew question, and we want all the votes we can get to
down the fellows that don't want to pay the assessment. Good-night."
And Outfield West took himself off toward his room, his broad shoulders
well back, and his clear, merry voice singing the school song as he
strode along. Joel turned into the library, feeling well satisfied with
the result of his meddling, to pore over a reference book until
supper time.
The following morning Joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a
dull sky. The elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch,
and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a
series of splashes. In the afternoon Joel got into his oldest clothes
and tramped over to Hampton House. The window of West's room looked
bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth
within. Joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the
great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at West's
room. A faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in.
The owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and
a deep expression of discontent was on his face.
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