The young soul stares at you
and sees the standards of the universe in chaos about itself.
And I feel all the more guilty in Philip's case because I know that the
lad speaks only a mechanical lingo which goes with his bull-dog pipe and
the aggressive shade of his neckwear and his socks. The very pain and
alarm my question raises in him shows well enough that his soul has kept
young and clear amid his world of "muckers" and "grinds" and "cads" and
"rotten sneaks," and all the men and things and conditions he is in the
habit of depicting in various stages of damnation. "Now, you're making
fun of me," says Philip. "We fellows don't know how to pick out words
that sound nice, but mean a--I beg your pardon--a good deal more than
they say. Anyhow, I suppose, if I try from now on till doomsday I shall
never be able to speak like you."
Bless his young sophomore's soul! With that last sentence Philip has
seized me hip and thigh and hurled me into an emotional whirlpool, where
chills and thrills rapidly succeed each other. Because I am fifteen
years older than Philip the boy invests me with a halo and bathes me in
adoration.
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