She has never had the advantages of a good education, her people are so poor, but she would profit by her opportunity if she did, more than some people who have.
You can tell by looking at her that she’s intelligent.”
It was early in May; examinations came in another two weeks.
He thought of them with excitement and pleasure — he liked the period of hard cramming, the long reviews, the delight of emptying out abundantly on paper his stored knowledge.
The big assembly room had about it the odor of completion, of sharp nervous ecstasy.
All through the summer it would be drowsy-warm; if only here, alone, with the big plaster cast of Minerva, himself and Bessie Barnes, or Miss — Miss —
“We want this boy,” said Margaret Leonard. She handed Eugene’s paper over to her husband.
They were starting a private school for boys. That was what the paper had been for.
Leonard took the paper, pretended to read half a page, looked off absently into eternity, and began to rub his chin reflectively, leaving a slight coating of chalk-dust on his face.
Then, catching her eye, he laughed idiotically, and said:
“Why, that little rascal!
Huh?
Do you suppose —?”
Feeling delightfully scattered, he bent over with a long suction of whining laughter, slapping his knee and leaving a chalk print, making a slobbering noise in his mouth.
“The Lord have mercy!” he gasped.
“Here!
Never you mind about that,” she said, laughing with tender sharp amusement.
“Pull yourself together and see this boy’s people.”
She loved the man dearly, and he loved her.
A few days later Leonard assembled the children a second time.
He made a rambling speech, the purport of which was to inform them that one of them had won the prize, but to conceal the winner’s name.
Then, after several divagations, which he thoroughly enjoyed, he read Eugene’s paper, announced his name, and called him forward.
Chalkface took chalkhand.
The boy’s heart thundered against his ribs.
The proud horns blared, he tasted glory.
Patiently, all through the summer, Leonard laid siege to Gant and Eliza.
Gant fidgeted, spoke shiftily, finally said:
“You’ll have to see his mother.”
Privately he was bitterly scornful, roared the merits of the public school as an incubator of citizenship.
The family was contemptuous.
Private school!
Mr. Vanderbilt!
Ruin him for good!
Which made Eliza reflective.
She had a good streak of snobbism.
Mr. Vanderbilt?
She was as good as any of them.
They’d just see.
“Who are you going to have?” she asked.
“Have you drummed any one up yet?”
Leonard mentioned the sons of several fashionable and wealthy people — of Dr. Kitchen, the eye, ear, nose and throat man, Mr. Arthur, the corporation lawyer, and Bishop Raper, of the Episcopal diocese.
Eliza grew more reflective.
She thought of Pett.
She needn’t give herself airs.
“How much are you asking?” she said.
He told her the tuition was one hundred dollars a year.
She pursed her lips lingeringly before she answered.
“Hm-m!” she began, with a bantering smile, as she looked at Eugene.
“That’s a whole lot of money.
You know,” she continued with her tremulous smile, “as the darkey says, we’re pore-folks.”