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“And Pa he took my report in both his horny old hands and he spelt it all out real careful and slow and respectful, like as though it had been a lace valentine, and ‘Good boy!’ he says, and ‘Bully boy!’ and ‘So Teacher says that one of my boys has got to go to college? One of my boys? Well, which one? Go fetch me Daniel’s report.’ So I went and fetched him Daniel’s report. It was gray, I remember–the supposed color of failure in our school–and I stood with the grin still half frozen on my face while Pa spelt out the dingy record of poor Daniel’s year. And then, ‘Oh, gorry!’ says Pa. ‘Run away and g’long to bed. I’ve got to think. But first,’ he says, all suddenly cautious and thrifty, ‘how much does it cost to go to college?’ And just about as delicate and casual as a missionary hinting for a new chapel, I blurted out loud as a bull: ‘Well, if I go up state to our own college, and get a chance to work for part of my board, it will cost me just $255 a year, or maybe–maybe,’ I stammered, ‘maybe, if I’m extra careful, only $245.50, say. For four years that’s only $982,’ I finished triumphantly.

“‘G-a-w-d!‘ says Pa. Nothing at all except just, ‘G-a-w-d!‘

“When I came down to breakfast the next morning, he was still sitting there in the cat’s rocking-chair, with his face as gray as his socks, and all the rest of him–blue jeans. And my pink school report, I remember, had slipped down under the stove, and the tortoise-shell cat was lashing it with her tail; but Daniel’s report, gray as his face, was still clutched up in Pa’s horny old hand. For just a second we eyed each other sort of dumb-like, and then for the first time, I tell you, I seen tears in his eyes.

“‘Johnny,’ he says, ‘it’s Daniel that’ll have to go to college. Bright men,’ he says, ‘don’t need no education.'”

Even after thirty years the Traveling Salesman’s hand shook slightly with the memory, and his joggled mind drove him with unwonted carelessness to pin price mark after price mark in the same soft, flimsy mesh of pink lisle. But the grin on his lips did not altogether falter.

“I’d had pains before in my stomach,” he acknowledged good-naturedly, “but that morning with Pa was the first time in my life that I ever had any pain in my plans!–So we mortgaged the house and the cow-barn and the maple-sugar trees,” he continued, more and more cheerfully, “and Daniel finished his schooling–in the Lord’s own time–and went to college.”

With another sudden, loud guffaw of mirth all the color came flushing back again into his heavy face.

“Well, Daniel has sure needed all the education he could get,” he affirmed heartily. “He’s a Methodist minister now somewhere down in Georgia–and, educated ‘way up to the top notch, he don’t make no more than $650 a year. $650!–oh, glory! Why, Daniel’s piazza on his new house cost him $175, and his wife’s last hospital bill was $250, and just one dentist alone gaffed him sixty-five dollars for straightening his oldest girl’s teeth!”

“Not sixty-five?” gasped the Young Electrician in acute dismay. “Why, two of my kids have got to have it done! Oh, come now–you’re joshing!”

“I’m not either joshing,” cried the Traveling Salesman. “Sure it was sixty-five dollars. Here’s the receipted bill for it right here in my pocket.” Brusquely he reached out and snatched the paper back again. “Oh, no, I beg your pardon. That’s the receipt for the piazza.–What? It isn’t? For the hospital bill then?–Oh, hang! Well, never mind. It was sixty-five dollars. I tell you I’ve got it somewhere.”

“Oh–you–paid–for–them–all, did you?” quizzed the Youngish Girl before she had time to think.

“No, indeed!” lied the Traveling Salesman loyally. “But $650 a year? What can a family man do with that? Why, I earned that much before I was twenty-one! Why, there wasn’t a moment after I quit school and went to work that I wasn’t earning real money! From the first night I stood on a street corner with a gasoline torch, hawking rasin-seeders, up to last night when I got an eight-hundred-dollar raise in my salary, there ain’t been a single moment in my life when I couldn’t have sold you my boots; and if you’d buncoed my boots away from me I’d have sold you my stockings; and if you’d buncoed my stockings away from me I’d have rented you the privilege of jumping on my bare toes. And I ain’t never missed a meal yet–though once in my life I was forty-eight hours late for one!–Oh, I’m bright enough,” he mourned, “but I tell you I ain’t refined.”