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Kansas University Weekly.
less cynicism of a few moments before was replaced by a series of conflicting thoughts of past, present and future. "Father ruined, father ruined," he muttered, "sick with worry, curtail, curtail. Yes of course he would curtail. More than that, he would be self-supporting. Not a cent would he cost his father from that day. What he would do, he didn't know. But others supported themselves and he could, he knew it; he had confidence in himself.
"What a fool I've been." he thought, as he sank back in his chair, the very comfort and elegance of which galled him, "what an ingrate. Father ruined and I on the road to ruin myself. And to think, only an hour ago—I wonder when this came, 'arrived at 8:15,' just after I left the house—for four hours, then, while my father has been worrying over losses of millions, I have been adding my little quota to his trouble by losing a hundred at poker." And I laughed and said, "the old man can stand it! For the last year at college I've been absolutely worthless, I've been neither a student nor a son, I've done my work with just as little effort as possible and devoted the rest of my time and energy to the very laudable task of trying to spend more money than any other fellow here.
"My father sent me here for study, to distinguish myself, if possible. He has hoped that as the result of my work here, I might be prepared with his influence behind me, to take a position in the New York bar that would in time place the name of Bronson beside that of Evarts and Choate. An unattainable position for a man of my superficial character and reckless habits, I admit, but such was the air-castle my father built and the plans and outlines of which he has often depicted to me in his conversation and letters. Dear old father, he has never dened me a request. And I—like a leech, have bled him for every cent I could throw away. A few moments ago I was excusing my way of life, laughing at my extravagancies, and with senseless sophistry convincing myself that this, after all, was as good a way as any to spend my time and money—my money did I say? No, not mine, my father's earned by his untiring energy and thrown away by me as by a prince of royal blood.
"But heavens, as though I had not enough to worry about with this contemplation of my ruined father and my worthless self, I have the further consolation that my bills here in town, in excess of this month's allowance, run
up into the hundreds, and not only is it impossible to call upon my father at such time, but to tell him how many of them were contracted would break his heart. As soon as the news is known, and it will probably be in the morning papers, I can rely upon it that tradesmen's bills and probably the tradesmen themselves will come rushing in upon me, fighting for precedence in line. And not only tradesmen but so-called friends will take occasion to inform me in a quiet and gentlemanly way that they are in no hurry but if I could settle as soon as possible they would be much obliged.
But how am I to support myself? What a hopeless hope! Who cares to aid me? Who will place reliance in me? I have no real friends, only mocking imitators of friendship, who will drop me when my money is gone. I might as well give up my struggle as to continue it longer." And so the optimistic triumphant self-confidence in his power to extricate himself and assist his father, which first followed the reading of the telegram, had been changed by degrees to a remorseful self-hatred and then to pessimistic despondency.
And Stuart Bronson got up from his chair and paced his apartments, loathing their very elegance and comfort, and then threw himself on the bed, thinking, thinking all the time, thinking cf himself and of his ruined father, and thinking too of his dead mother whose sweet, lovable, gentle face came back to him more than once and drew tears from his eyes. "Thank God, she knows nothing of this," he said aloud, and then hated himself for saying it, for it seemed to thank God for her death.
Stuart Bronson arose the next morning, haggard and pale. His first act after leaving his rooms was to see his landlady and tell her he should leave when his week was up. She, kind, motherly soul, guessed from the arrival of the telegram and from Stuart's pale, worn face that something was the matter and wanted to console him, but he could not bear her sympathy and broke off the conversation. Next he went to the newspaper office and inserted an advertisement for the private sale of his goods on the following afternoon. After this he hunted up an acquaintance who had supported himself at least partly for the last two years and held a long conversation with him. As a result he made several applications for positions, each requiring only a part of a day. Finally he dragged himself back to his