Joe threw up his hand with a gesture of despair.

“I know how you feel about it,” Mr. Bronson went on; “but you are only a boy, very much like that young sparrow we were watching.  If at home you have not sufficient control over yourself to study, then away from home, out in the world which you think is calling to you, you will likewise not have sufficient control over yourself to do the work of that world.

“But I am willing, Joe, I am willing, after you have finished high school and before you go into the university, to let you out into the world for a time.”

“Let me go now?” Joe asked impulsively.

“No; it is too early.  You have n’t your wings yet.  You are too unformed, and your ideals and standards are not yet thoroughly fixed.”

“But I shall not be able to study,” Joe threatened.  “I know I shall not be able to study.”

Mr. Bronson consulted his watch and arose to go.  “I have not made up my mind yet,” he said.  “I do not know what I shall do—­whether I shall give you another trial at the public school or send you to a military academy.”

He stopped a moment at the door and looked back.  “But remember this, Joe,” he said.  “I am not angry with you; I am more grieved and hurt.  Think it over, and tell me this evening what you intend to do.”

His father passed out, and Joe heard the front door close after him.  He leaned back in the big easy-chair and closed his eyes.  A military school!  He feared such an institution as the animal fears a trap.  No, he would certainly never go to such a place.  And as for public school—­He sighed deeply at the thought of it.  He was given till evening to make up his mind as to what he intended to do.  Well, he knew what he would do, and he did not have to wait till evening to find it out.

He got up with a determined look on his face, put on his hat, and went out the front door.  He would show his father that he could do his share of the world’s work, he thought as he walked along—­he would show him.

By the time he reached the school he had his whole plan worked out definitely.  Nothing remained but to put it through.  It was the noon hour, and he passed in to his room and packed up his books unnoticed.  Coming out through the yard, he encountered Fred and Charley.

“What ’s up?” Charley asked.

“Nothing,” Joe grunted.

“What are you doing there?”

“Taking my books home, of course.  What did you suppose I was doing?”

“Come, come,” Fred interposed.  “Don’t be so mysterious.  I don’t see why you can’t tell us what has happened.”

“You ’ll find out soon enough,” Joe said significantly—­more significantly than he had intended.

And, for fear that he might say more, he turned his back on his astonished chums and hurried away.  He went straight home and to his room, where he busied himself at once with putting everything in order.  His clothes he hung carefully away, changing the suit he had on for an older one.  From his bureau he selected a couple of changes of underclothing, a couple of cotton shirts, and half a dozen pairs of socks.  To these he added as many handkerchiefs, a comb, and a tooth-brush.