Chapin had been going to the Temple College for four years, and it would probably take him two years more to complete the course.  He conned his book on trolley-cars, or while he waited by the track on windy corners, and studied far into the night.  His natural stupidity must have been something quite out of the ordinary; after years of reverential study, he could not read the Greek Testament without a lexicon and grammar at his elbow.  He gave a great deal of time to the practice of elocution and oratory.  At certain hours their frail domicile—­it had been thinly built for the academic poor and sat upon concrete blocks in lieu of a foundation—­re-echoed with his hoarse, overstrained voice, declaiming his own orations or those of Wendell Phillips.

Annabelle Chapin was one of Claude’s classmates.  She was not as dull as her brother; she could learn a conjugation and recognize the forms when she met with them again.  But she was a gushing, silly girl, who found almost everything in their grubby life too good to be true; and she was, unfortunately, sentimental about Claude.  Annabelle chanted her lessons over and over to herself while she cooked and scrubbed.  She was one of those people who can make the finest things seem tame and flat merely by alluding to them.  Last winter she had recited the odes of Horace about the house—­it was exactly her notion of the student-like thing to do—­until Claude feared he would always associate that poet with the heaviness of hurriedly prepared luncheons.

Mrs. Wheeler liked to feel that Claude was assisting this worthy pair in their struggle for an education; but he had long ago decided that since neither of the Chapins got anything out of their efforts but a kind of messy inefficiency, the struggle might better have been relinquished in the beginning.  He took care of his own room; kept it bare and habitable, free from Annabelle’s attentions and decorations.  But the flimsy pretences of light-housekeeping were very distasteful to him.  He was born with a love of order, just as he was born with red hair.  It was a personal attribute.

The boy felt bitterly about the way in which he had been brought up, and about his hair and his freckles and his awkwardness.  When he went to the theatre in Lincoln, he took a seat in the gallery, because he knew that he looked like a green country boy.  His clothes were never right.  He bought collars that were too high and neckties that were too bright, and hid them away in his trunk.  His one experiment with a tailor was unsuccessful.  The tailor saw at once that his stammering client didn’t know what he wanted, so he persuaded him that as the season was spring he needed light checked trousers and a blue serge coat and vest.  When Claude wore his new clothes to St. Paul’s church on Sunday morning, the eyes of every one he met followed his smart legs down the street.  For the next week he observed the legs of old men and young, and decided there wasn’t