"
Young Cornwall hated "loafing." His brain and body loved activity. He
would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours
that had been forced on him to endure. To-night, particularly, time hung
very heavy on his hands. He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from
the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding
it most difficult. His father read the newspaper, his mother mended
stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra.
Presently Jack's nerves seemed to break. He sprang up impetuously, then,
controlling himself, sat down again, and said: "Oh, it is brutal, this
sitting around! I don't believe I can stand it much longer. I wish I
were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work
with my hands, if I mustn't use my eyes."
His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it _was_ hard. His
father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then,
extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said:
"John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull?
Here's news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you
in connection with it.
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