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

And An Exquisite Skin,  As Delicate As A Child'S.

His Features Were Well Carved,  His Nose Slightly Aquiline--A Magnificent

Looking Fellow,  Almost Imperious; Or As Hugh Once Said To Carl,  "Morse

Looks Kinda Noble."

 

As Hugh Placed His Hand On The Door-Knob Of No 19,  He Heard Something

That Sounded Suspiciously Like A Sob From Across The Hall. He Paused And

Listened. He Was Sure That He Could Hear Some One Crying.

 

"Wonder What'S Wrong," He Thought,  Instantly Disturbed And Sympathetic.

 

He Crossed The Hall And Tapped Lightly On Morse'S Door. There Was No

Answer; Nor Was There Any When He Tapped A Second Time. For A Moment He

Was Abashed,  And Then He Pushed Open The Door And Entered Morse'S Room.

 

In The Far Corner Morse Was Sitting At His,  Desk,  His Head Buried In His

Arms,  His Shoulders Shaking. He Was Crying Fiercely,  Terribly; At Times

His Whole Body Jerked In The Violence Of His Sobbing.

 

Hugh Stood By The Door Embarrassed And Rather Frightened. Morse'S Grief

Brought A Lump To His Throat. He Had Never Seen Any One Cry Like That

Before. Something Had To Be Done. But What Could He Do? He Had No Right

To Intrude On Morse,  But He Couldn'T Let The Poor Fellow Go On Suffering

Like That. As He Stood There Hesitant,  Shaken,  Morse Buried His Head

Deeper In His Arms,  Moaned Convulsively,  Twisting And Trembling After A

Series Of Sobs That Seemed To Tear Themselves From Him. That Was Too

Much For Hugh. He Couldn'T Stand It. Some Force Outside Of Him Sent Him

Across The Room To Morse. He Put His Hand On A Quivering Shoulder And

Said Gently:

 

"What Is It,  Morse? What'S The Matter?"

 

Morse Ran His Hand Despairingly Through His Red Hair,  Shook His Head,

And Made No Answer.

 

"Come On,  Old Man; Buck Up." Hugh'S Voice Trembled; It Was Husky With

Sympathy. "Tell Me About It. Maybe I Can Help."

 

Then Morse Looked Up,  His Face Stained With Tears,  His Eyes Inflamed,

Almost Desperate. He Stared At Hugh Wonderingly. For An Instant He Was

Angry At The Intrusion,  But His Anger Passed At Once. He Could Not Miss

The Tenderness And Sympathy In Hugh'S Face; And The Boy'S Hand Was Still

Pressing With Friendly Insistence On His Shoulder. There Was Something

Chapter 4 Part 22

So Boyishly Frank,  So Clean And Honest About Hugh That His Irritation

Melted Into Confidence; And He Craved A Confidant Passionately.

 

"Shut The Door," He Said Dully,  And Reached Into His Trousers Pocket For

His Handkerchief. He Mopped His Face And Eyes Vigorously While Hugh Was

Closing The Door,  And Then Blew His Nose As If He Hated It. But The

Tears Continued To Come,  And All During His Talk With Hugh He Had To

Pause Occasionally To Dry His Eyes.

 

Hugh Stood Awkwardly In The Middle Of The Rug,  Not Knowing Whether To

Sit Down Or Not. Morse Was Clutching His Handkerchief In His Hand And

Staring At The Floor. Finally He Spoke Up.

 

"Sit Down," He Said In a Dead Voice,  "There."

 

Hugh Sank Into The Chair Morse Indicated And Then Gripped His Hands

Together. He Felt Weak And Frightened,  And Absolutely Unable To Say

Anything. But Morse Saved Him The Trouble.

 

"I Suppose You Think I Am An Awful Baby," He Began,  His Voice Thick With

Tears,  "But I Just Can'T Help It. I--I Just Can'T Help It. I Don'T Want

To Cry,  But I Do." And Then He Added Defiantly,  "Go Ahead And Think I'M

A Baby If You Want To."

 

"I Don'T Think You'Re A Baby," Hugh Said Softly; "I'M Just Sorry; That'S

All.... I Hope I Can Help." He Smiled Shyly,  Hopefully.

 

His Smile Conquered Morse. "You'Re A Good Kid,  Carver," He Cried

Impulsively. "A Darn Good Kid. I Like You,  And I'M Going To Tell You All

About It. And I--I--I Won'T Care If You Laugh."

 

"I Won'T Laugh," Hugh Promised,  Relieved To Think That There Was A

Possibility Of Laughing. The Trouble Couldn'T Be So Awfully Bad.

 

Morse Blew His Nose,  Stuck His Handkerchief Into His Pocket,  Pulled It

Out Again And Dabbed His Eyes,  Returned It To His Pocket,  And Suddenly

Stood Up.

 

"I'M Homesick!" He Blurred Out. "I'M--I'M Homesick,  Damned Homesick.

I'Ve Been Homesick Ever Since I Arrived. I--I Just Can'T Stand It."

 

For An Instant Hugh Did Have A Wild Desire To Laugh. Part Of The Desire

Was Caused By Nervous Relief,  But Part Of It Was Caused By What Seemed

To Him The Absurdity Of The Situation: A Big Fellow Like Morse

Blubbering,  Bawling For Home And Mother!

 

"You Can'T Know," Morse Went On,  "How Awful It Is--Awful! I Want To Cry

All The Time. I Can'T Listen In classes. A Prof Asked Me A Question

To-Day,  And I Didn'T Know What He Had Been Talking About. He Asked Me

What He Had Said. I Had To Say I Didn'T Know. The Whole Class Laughed,

And The Prof Asked Me Why I Had Come To College. God! I Nearly Died."

 

Hugh'S Sympathy Was All Captured Again. He Knew That He _Would_ Die If

He Ever Made A Fool Of Himself In The Class-Room.

 

"Gosh!" He Exclaimed. "What Did You Say?"

 

"Nothing. I Couldn'T Think Of Anything. For A Minute I Thought That My

Chapter 4 Part 23

Head Was Going To Bust. He Quit Razzing Me And I Tried To Pay Attention,

But I Couldn'T; All I Could Do Was Think Of Home. Lord! I Wish I Was

There!" He Mopped At His Eyes And Paced Up And Down The Room Nervously.

 

"Oh,  You'Ll Get Over That," Hugh Said Comfortingly. "Pretty Soon You'Ll

Get To Know Lots Of Fellows,  And Then You Won'T Mind About Home."

 

"That'S What I Keep Telling Myself,  But It Don'T Work. I Can'T Eat Or

Sleep. I Can'T Study. I Can'T Do Anything. I Tell You I'Ve Got To Go

Home. I'Ve _Got_ To!" This Last With Desperate Emphasis.

 

Hugh Smiled. "You'Re All Wrong," He Asserted Positively. "You'Re Just

Lonely; That'S All. I Bet That You'Ll Be Crazy About College In a

Month--Same As The Rest Of Us. When You Feel Blue,  Come In and See

Peters And Me. We'Ll Make You Grin; Peters Will,  Anyway. You Can'T Be

Blue Around Him."

 

Morse Sat Down. "You Don'T Understand. I'M Not Lonely. It Isn'T That. I

Could Talk To Fellows All Day Long If I Wanted To. I Don'T Want To Talk

To 'Em. I Can'T. There'S Just One Person That I Want To Talk To,  And

That'S My Mother." He Shot The Word "Mother" Out Defiantly And Glared At

Hugh,  Silently Daring Him To Laugh,  Which Hugh Had Sense Enough Not To

Do,  Although He Wanted To Strongly. The Great Big Baby,  Wanting His

Mother! Why,  He Wanted His Mother,  Too,  But He Didn'T Cry About It.

 

"That'S All Right," He Said Reassuringly; "You'Ll See Her Christmas

Vacation,  And That Isn'T Very Long Off."

 

"I Want To See Her Now!" Morse Jumped To His Feet And Raised His

Clenched Hands Above His Head. "Now!" He Roared. "Now! I'Ve Got To. I'M

Going Home On The Midnight." He Whirled About To His Desk And Began To

Pull Open The Drawers,  Piling Their Contents On The Top.

 

"Here!" Hugh Rushed To Him And Clutched His Arms. "Don'T Do That." Morse

Struggled,  Angry At The Restraining Hands,  Ready To Strike Them Off.

Hugh Had A Flash Of Inspiration. "Think How Disappointed Your Mother

Will Be," He Cried,  Hanging On To Morse'S Arms; "Think Of Her."

 

Morse Ceased Struggling. "She Will Be Disappointed," He Admitted

Miserably. "What Can I Do?" There Was A World Of Despair In His

Question.

 

Hugh Pushed Him Into The Desk-Chair And Seated Himself On The Edge Of

The Desk. "I'Ll Tell You," He Said. He Talked For Half An Hour,  Cheering

Morse,  Assuring Him That His Homesickness Would Pass Away,  Offering To

Study With Him. At First Morse Paid Little Attention,  But Finally He

Quit Sniffing And Looked Up,  Real Interest In His Face. When Hugh Got A

Weak Smile Out Of Him,  He Felt That His Work Had Been Done. He Jumped

Off The Desk,  Leaned Over To Slap Morse On The Back,  And Told Him That

He Was A Good Egg But A Damn Fool.

 

Morse Grinned. "You'Re A Good Egg Yourself," He Said Gratefully. "You'Ve

Saved My Life."

 

Hugh Was Pleased And Blushed. "You'Re Full Of Bull.... Remember,  We Do

Latin At Ten To-Morrow." He Opened The Door. "Good Night."

 

"Good Night." And Hugh Heard As He Closed The Door. "Thanks A Lot."

Chapter 4 Pg 24

 

When He Opened His Own Door,  He Found Carl Sitting Before A Blazing Log

Fire. There Was No Other Light In The Room. Carl Had Written His Nightly

Letter To The "Old Lady," And He Was A Little Homesick Himself--Softened

Into A Tender And Pensive Mood. He Did Not Move As Hugh Sat Down In a

Big Chair On The Other Side Of The Hearth And Said God,  Feeling His Love,  And Content

That Others Should Feel It. On The Other Hand,  See This Pure And Free

Communion,  Distracted And Interrupted By A Thousand Tortuous Reasonings

As To The Exact Nature Of It. What Can Obscure Intellectual

Propositions,_' It Is Asked,  '_Have To Do With A Religion Of The Heart?

And Do Not They Check The Latter By Being Thus Bound Up With It?_' But

What Really Can Be More Misleading Than This? Natural Religion Is

Doubtless Simpler In One Sense Than Revealed Religion; But It Is Only

Simple Because It Has No Authoritative Science Of Itself. It Is Simple

For The Same Reason That A Boy'S Account Of Having Given Himself A

Headache Is Simpler Than A Physician'S Would Be. The Boy Says Merely,

'_I Ate Ten Tarts,  And Drank Three Bottles Of Ginger-Beer._' The

Physician,  Were He To Explain The Catastrophe,  Would Describe A Number

Of Far More Complex Processes. The Boy'S Account Would Be Of Course The

Simplest,  And Would Certainly Go More Home To The General Heart Of

Boyhood; But It Would Not For That Reason Be The Correctest Or The Most

Important. And Just Like This Will Be The Case Of The Divine Communion,

Which The Simple Saint May Feel,  And The Subtle Theologian Analyse.

 

But It Will Be Well To Observe,  Further,  That The Simplicity Of A

Religion Can Of Itself Be No Test Of The Probable Truth Of It. And In

The Case Of Natural Religion,  What Is Called Simplicity Is In General

Nothing More Than Vagueness. If _Simplicity_ Used In This Way Be A Term

Of Praise,  We Might Praise A Landscape