And then his head
drooped, his hands fell laxly at his sides. It seemed it was not of
Beason he had been thinking as he looked Fate in the face with that taunt
of the old Persian poet.
But he looked at him after a moment, came back to him. He saw that the
boy was disappointed. The gloom with which he had come had not lifted
from his face. That would not do. He was not going to fail his student
like that.
"Why, look here, Beason," he said in a new tone, all enthusiasm now,
"maybe you'll shoot a bear. I have a presentiment, Beason, that you will,
and when you're eighty-five and have your great grandchild on your knee,
you'll think a great deal more about that bear than you will about the
year you missed here at school. Now brace up! Hard knocks wake a fellow
up. You'll come back here and do better work for your year of roughing
it--take my word for it, you will."
Beason had brightened. "And you think,"--he grew a little red--"that when
I come back I can have my old place here with you?"
The man drew in his breath, drew it in rather hard; something had taken
the enthusiasm away.
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