The Plastic Age - Percy Marks (classic literature books txt) 📗

Was Just Writing A Note

To You."

 

"To Me? Why?"

 

Carl Pointed To His Suit-Case Standing By The Center-Table.

 

"That'S Why."

 

"Going Away On A Party?"

 

"My Trunk Left An Hour Ago. I'M Going Away For Good." Carl'S Voice Was

Husky,  And He Spoke With An Obvious Effort.

 

Hugh Walked Quickly To The Desk. "Why,  Old Man,  What'S The Matter?

Anything Wrong With Your Mother? You'Re Not Sick,  Are You?"

 

Carl Laughed,  Briefly,  Bitterly. "Yes,  I'M Sick All Right. I'M Sick."

 

Hugh,  Worried,  Looked At Him Seriously. "Why,  What'S The Matter? I

Didn'T Know That You Weren'T Feeling Well."

 

Carl Looked At The Rug And Muttered,  "You Remember Those Rats We Picked

Up In Hastings?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"Well,  I Know Of Seven Fellows They'Ve Sent Home."

 

Chapter 12 Pg 92

"What!" Hugh Cried,  His Eyes Wide With Horror. "You Don'T Mean That

You--That You--"

 

"I Mean Exactly That," Carl Replied In a Low,  Flat Voice. He Rose And

Moved To The Other Side Of The Room. "I Mean Exactly That; And Doc

Conners Agrees With Me," He Added Sarcastically. Then More Softly,  "He'S

Got To Tell The Dean. That'S Why I'M Going Home."

 

Hugh Was Swept Simultaneously By Revulsion And Sympathy. "God,  I'M

Sorry," He Exclaimed. "Oh,  Carl,  I'M So Damn Sorry."

 

Carl Was Standing By Hugh'S Desk,  His Hands Clenched,  His Lips

Compressed. "Keep My Junk," He Said Unevenly,  "And Sell Anything You

Want To If You Live In The House Next Year."

 

"But You'Ll Be Back?"

 

"No,  I Won'T Come Back--I Won'T Come Back." He Was Having A Hard Time

To Keep Back The Tears And Bit His Trembling Lip Mercilessly. "Oh,

Hugh," He Suddenly Cried,  "What Will My Mother Say?"

 

Hugh Was Deeply Distressed,  But He Was Startled By That "My Mother." It

Was The First Time He Had Ever Heard Carl Speak Of His Mother Except As

The "Old Lady."

 

"She Will Understand," He Said Soothingly.

 

"How Can She? How Can She? God,  Hugh,  God!" He Buried His Face In His

Hands And Wept Bitterly. Hugh Put His Arm Around His Shoulder And Tried

To Comfort Him,  And In a Few Minutes Carl Was In control Of Himself

Again. He Dried His Eyes With His Handkerchief.

 

"What A Fish I Am!" He Said,  Trying To Grin. "A Goddamn Fish." He Looked

At His Watch. "Hell,  I'Ve Got To Be Going If I'M Going To Make The Five

Fifteen," He Picked Up His Suit-Case And Held Out His Free Hand.

"There'S Something I Want To Say To You,  Hugh,  But I Guess I'Ll Write

It. Please Don'T Come To The Train With Me." He Gripped Hugh'S Hand Hard

For An Instant And Then Was Out Of The Door And Down The Hall Before

Hugh Had Time To Say Anything.

 

Two Days Afterward The Letter Came. The Customary "Dear Brother" And

"Fraternally Yours" Were Omitted.

 

 

 

 

       Dear Hugh:

 

       I'Ve Thought Of Letters Yards Long But I'M Not Going To

       Write Them. I Just Want To Say That You Are The Finest

       Thing That Ever Happened To Me Outside Of My Mother,  And

       I Respect You More Than Any Fellow I'Ve Ever Known. I'M

       Ashamed Because I Started You Drinking And I Hope You'Ll

       Stop It. I Feel Toward You The Way Harry Slade Does,

       Only More I Guess. You'Ve Done An Awful Lot For Me.

 

       I Want To Ask A Favor Of You. Please Leave Women Alone.

       Keep Straight,  Please. You Don'T Know How Much I Want

Chapter 12 Pg 93

       You To Do That.

 

       Thanks For All You'Ve Done For Me.

 

                                                Carl.

 

 

 

 

Hugh'S Eyes Filled With Tears When He Read That Letter. Carl Seemed A

Tragic Figure To Him,  And He Missed Him Dreadfully. Poor Old Carl! What

Hell It Must Have Been To Tell His Mother! "And He Wants Me To Keep

Straight. By God,  I Will.... I'Ll Try To,  Anyhow."

 

 

Chapter 13 Pg 94

Henley Picked Up Three Themes. Then He Turned His Keen Eyes On Hugh.

"I'Ve Already Read These. Lazy Cuss,  Aren'T You?" He Asked Amiably.

 

Hugh Flushed. "I--I Suppose So."

 

"You Know That You Are; No Supposing To It." He Slapped The Desk Lightly

With The Themes. "First Drafts,  Aren'T They?"

 

"Yes,  Sir." Hugh Felt His Cheeks Getting Warmer.

 

Henley Smiled. "Thanks For Not Lying. If You Had Lied,  This Conference

Would Have Ended Right Now. Oh,  I Wouldn'T Have Told You That I Thought

You Were Lying; I Would Simply Have Made A Few Polite But Entirely

Insincere Comments About Your Work And Let You Go. Now I Am Going To

Talk To You Frankly And Honestly."

 

"I Wish You Would," Hugh Murmured,  But He Wasn'T At All Sure That He

Wished Anything Of The Sort.

 

Henley Knocked The Ashes Out Of His Pipe Into A Metal Tray,  Refilled It,

Lighted It,  And Then Puffed Meditatively,  Gazing At Hugh With Kind But

Speculative Eyes.

 

"I Think You Have Ability," He Began Slowly. "You Evidently Write With

Great Fluency And Considerable Accuracy,  And I Can Find Poetic Touches

Here And There That Please Me. But You Are Careless,  Abominably

Careless,  Lazy. Whatever Virtues There Are In Your Themes Come From A

Natural Gift,  Not From Any Effort You Made To Say The Thing In The Best

Way. Now,  I'M Not Going To Spend Anytime Discussing These Themes In

Detail; They Aren'T Worth It."

 

He Pointed His Pipe At Hugh. "The Point Is Exactly This," He Said

Sternly. "I'Ll Never Spend Any Time Discussing Your Themes So Long As

You Turn In Hasty,  Shoddy Work. I Can See Right Now That You Can Get A C

In This Course Without Trying. If That'S All You Want,  All Right,  I'Ll

Give It To You--And Let It Go At That. The Lord Knows That I Have Enough

To Do Without Wasting Time On Lazy Youngsters Who Haven'T Sense Enough

To Develop Their Gifts. If You Continue To Turn In Themes Like These,

I'Ll Give You C'S Or D'S On Them And Let You Dig Your Own Shallow Grave

By Yourself. But If You Want To Try To Write As Well As You Can,  I'Ll

Give You All The Help In My Power. Not One Minute Can You Have So Long

As You Don'T Try,  But You Can Have Hours If You Do Try. Furthermore,  You

Will Find Writing A Pleasure If You Write As Well As You Can,  But You

Won'T Get Any Sport Just Scribbling Off Themes Because You Have To."

 

He Paused To Toss The Three Themes Across The Desk To Hugh,  Who Was

Watching Him With Astonishment. No Instructor Had Ever Talked To Him

That Way Before.

 

"You Can Rewrite These Themes If You Want To," Henley Went On. "I

Haven'T Graded Them,  And I'Ll Reserve The Grades For The Rewritten

Themes; And If I Find That You Have Made A Real Effort,  I'Ll Discuss

Them In detail With You. What Do You Say?"

 

"I'D Like To Rewrite Them," Hugh Said Softly. "I Know They Are Rotten."

 

"No,  They Aren'T Rotten. I'Ve Got Dozens That Are Worse. That Isn'T The

Chapter 13 Pg 95

Point. They Aren'T Nearly So Good As You Can Make Them,  And Only Your

Best Work Is Acceptable To Me. Now Show Me What You Can Do With Them,

And Then We'Ll Tear Them To Shreds In Regular Fashion." He Turned To His

Desk And Smiled At Hugh,  Who,  Understanding That The Conference Was

Over,  Stood Up And Reached For The Themes. "I'Ll Be Interested In

Seeing What You Can Do With Those," Henley Concluded. "Every One Of Them

Has A Good Idea. Go To It--And Get Them Back In a Week."

 

"Yes,  Sir. Thanks Very Much."

 

"Right-O. Good-By."

 

"Good-By,  Sir," And Hugh Left The Office Determined To Rewrite Those

Themes So That "They'D Knock Jimmie Henley'S Eye Out." They Didn'T Do

Exactly That,  But They Did Interest Him,  And He Spent An Hour And A Half

Discussing Them With Hugh.

 

That Was Merely The First Of A Series Of Long Conferences. Sometimes

Henley And Hugh Discussed Writing,  But Often They Talked About Other

Subjects,  Not As Instructor And Student But As Two Men Who Respected

Each Other'S Mind. Before The Term Was Out Henley Had Invited Hugh To

His Home For Dinner And To Meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh Was Enormously

Flattered And,  For Some Reason,  Stimulated To Do Better Work. He Found

His Talks With Henley Really Exciting,  And He Expressed His Opinions To

Him As Freely And Almost As Positively As He Did To His Classmates. He

Told His Friends That Jimmie Henley Was Human,  Not Like Most Profs. And

He Worked At His Writing As He Had Never Worked At Anything,  Running

Excepted,  Since He Had Been In college.

 

The Students Never Knew What To Expect From Henley In The Class-Room.

Sometimes He Read Themes And Criticized Them; Sometimes He Discussed

Books That He Had Been Reading; Sometimes He Read Poetry,  Not Because

Contemporary Poetry Was Part Of The Course But Because He Happened To

Feel Like Reading It That Morning; Sometimes He Discoursed On The Art Of

Writing; And Sometimes He Talked About Anything That Happened To Be

Occupying His Mind. He Made His Class-Room An Open Forum,  And The

Students Felt Free To Interrupt Him At Any Time And To Disagree With

Him. Usually They Did Disagree With Him And Afterward Wrote Violent

Themes To Prove That He Was Wrong. That Was Exactly What Henley Wanted

Them To Do,  And The More He Could Stir Them Up The Better Satisfied He

Was.

 

One Morning,  However,  He Talked Without Interruption. He Didn'T Want To

Be Interrupted,  And The Boys Were So Taken Back By His Statements That

They Could Find No Words To Say Anything.

 

The Bell Rang. Henley Called The Roll,  Stuck His Class-Book Into His

Coat Pocket,  Placed His Watch On The Desk; Then