Horace has always been more or less of a
pepper-pot, but he is not exactly a croaker, and he served in the war
with distinction. Hence his diatribe made me frown, even though it
rather amused me. It was written in the autumn of the year before Fred
went to Cambridge, and I read it aloud to the family circle as being of
interest to a sub-freshman.
"What perfect nonsense!" exclaimed that profound young gentleman, when
I had finished. "The man who wrote that letter is a flub-dub, father."
Though not aware of the precise meaning of this epithet, I realized
that it was a severe arraignment. I felt, too, that my manner of
reading the communication had given license to my boy's tongue. I
answered, therefore, with some unction:
"The writer, Horace Plympton, is a brave and sensible man. I know him
very well."
"I guess he never kicked foot-ball."
"In his day the young men who were fortunate enough to be sent to
college were better occupied. Foot-ball? It is a game for
high-schools, not universities."
"It is the greatest game of the day, father," said my sub-freshman,
with the haughty consciousness of superior knowledge which the waning,
though reigning, generation has so often to bow to.
Of course that settled the question. I believe that I made a futile
remark to the effect that the president ought to put a stop to it, or
something of the sort, but I knew enough to know that I had been
convicted of error.
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