CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A New Term

On a stormy New Year’s Eve Adam and Jamie ran into James Brand, who had remained in New Haven over the term break, and invited him to see in the new year with them.  They did it in relatively quiet fashion, since both James and Jamie had taken the pledge against drinking.  Still, a toast over coffee at midnight elicited just as much enthusiasm, and they pressed through the streets, shouting “Happy New Year” at every lighted window they passed.  Despite near gale-force winds, some residents leaned out those windows and shouted the greeting back, for that brief interlude, at least, forsaking the traditional rivalry between town and gown.

Though they had retired late, the two roommates were up early on January first.  The first thing they did, even before breakfasting on apples and rolls purchased the day before, was to exchange their journals.  “Not by mail this year, which is quite an improvement,” Adam commented.  “I won’t have to watch the post with such anticipation.”

“Except for letters from home,” Jamie quipped.

“Oh ho!” Adam exclaimed.  “You’re worse than I am about that now, chum.”

Jamie grinned sheepishly.  “I admit it.  I’m very anxious to hear from father and learn what sort of accommodations he’s found.”

“Oh, I can tell you that now,” Adam said flatly and added wryly, “Cheap!”

Jamie laughed.  “I was able to figure that much on my own!”

Adam inclined his chin toward the book now in Jamie’s hand.  “There’s some railing against the heavens in that, I’m afraid.  I hope you won’t find it offensive.”

“I never find honesty offensive,” Jamie declared stoutly.

Adam nodded.  He’d seen the proof of that many times.

Jamie rubbed his index finger down the spine of the volume.  “I suppose this will be our last year to exchange journals like this.  Not much point when we share practically every moment.”

Adam shrugged.  “Yeah, but I bought a blank book, anyway.  The habit of years.”

Jamie grinned.  “I did, too.  It just wouldn’t feel right not to record my thoughts at the end of the day.”

“Same here,” Adam agreed.  “We can decide next New Year’s Day whether we think they’re worth exchanging.”

“Right.  Well, I’m going to delve into this right after breakfast.”  He tapped Adam’s journal.

‘Um, I’d like to,” Adam said, “but I still need to put the finishing touches on my drawing of the State House, so I’ll probably save yours for a bedtime story.”

Jamie tossed an apple to Adam.  “I trust the raucous laughter as I read your musings won’t disturb your work.”

Adam deftly caught the fruit.  “No, nor the loud and fervent prayers on behalf of my sinful soul when you reach certain parts,” he snorted.  “I shall be oblivious to them.  First things first, though.”

“Breakfast!” Jamie agreed, taking a large, enthusiastic bite of his apple.

* * * * *

            Jamie leaned over Adam’s back and scrutinized his drawing.  “That’s wonderful, Adam.”

Adam’s mouth remained puckered.  “I can’t quite get the perspective right, but that should be something I could learn.”

“Of course, you can!” Jamie gave an encouraging pat to his friend’s shoulder.  “You have the talent.”

“Thanks,” Adam set his drawing pencil down and stretched his arms overhead.  “I still need to talk to Louis Bail, the drawing instructor, to see about joining his class.”

“Will you do that tomorrow?” Jamie inquired.

Adam’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.  “I don’t think so.  I want to make a good start on my other work first, and probably Mr. Bail would be more amenable to a new student after he settles in for the new term.  I think I’ll wait until Saturday.”

“Good thinking,” Jamie said.  “It’s a short day, so you’ll both have more time.”

“Exactly.”  Adam stood and worked his arms back and forth.  “I’ve got to get the kinks out before I do any more.”

Jamie slid into Adam’s vacated seat to examine the drawing more closely.  “It looks perfect to me now.  What more can you do to it?”

Adam’s nose wrinkled.  “Maybe nothing, but it’s far from perfect.  That perspective just isn’t right.”

Jamie stood up and moved toward the door.  “A fresh perspective is just what you need.  Let’s go out for a while, get some air and exercise.”

“Hey, who’s the doctor around here?” Adam chuckled.  “That sounds like my prescription for you!”

“Physician, heal thyself,” Jamie snickered as he reached for his wraps.

Adam followed suit and soon they were moving briskly through the streets of New Haven, relishing the crisp air and the bright prospects ahead.  When they returned, Adam again tackled his problem in perspective, while Jamie opened his textbooks and studied for the next day’s recitations, even though they had no specific assignment.  “I’ll be prepared and you won’t,” he teased.

“I’ll risk it,” Adam scoffed.  “We’ll probably just review last term’s material, anyway.”

“Perhaps,” Jamie admitted, “although we did a rather thorough one before exams.  Anyway, I can use a head start on the work.”

“Oh, yeah,” Adam grunted as he bent over his drawing.  “You’re in such danger of falling behind.”  He worked on the drawing another hour and then set his work aside.  “That’s the best I can do.”  He went over to the bed and stretched out.  “If I fall asleep, wake me in half an hour,” he requested.  “The Beethoven Society has rehearsal at five.”

“Something simple, I hope,” Jamie said with a sympathetic smile.

Adam folded his arms beneath his head.  “I doubt we could learn anything new by chapel tomorrow.  Herr Stoeckel said we’d repeat a song from our Christmas concert.”  Half an hour later he rose and prepared to leave.  “Shall I pick up something for dinner?”

“Whatever suits you,” Jamie replied.  “I can’t wait until tomorrow, when we can start eating at the Vultures’ Nest again.”

“My stomach heartily concurs,” Adam said with a wink.

Even though the song for the next day was one the choir had sung so recently, the rehearsal ran full length, for Herr Stoeckel introduced new material for upcoming chapel services.  And he took time, of course, to give his usual firm admonitions to “watch your blend, gentlemen.”  For once, Adam was not one of the culprits called out for singing louder than his companions.  As he walked toward a local grocer’s shop, he thought about how hard that first meeting with Gustave Stoeckel had been.  He’d proven himself to the music instructor, though, and given the chance, he was hopeful that he could do the same with Louis Bail.  He was still nervous about Saturday’s meeting, but success in one endeavor, he was finding, helped generate confidence in the next.

* * * * *

            On Thursday morning a riot of ravenous boys swooped down upon the Vultures’ Nest and greeted Mrs. Swanson with the affection that one might bestow upon a long lost mother.  Most of them, of course, had just come from home, where their own mothers had pampered and petted them and stuffed them to the seams with their favorite foods, but they seemed quite ready for more of the same attention here at school.  Fortunately, Mrs. Swanson felt well disposed to give it.  While even Adam and Jamie had eaten quite well on their trip to New York City, they’d returned to their penny-pinching ways once back in New Haven, often dining on sausage, cheese and apples from a nearby grocery, and were eager to rejoin the Vultures, where the same penny bought a more substantial meal.

Thankfully, no mother supervised that reunion breakfast, for she would have been kept busy admonishing the young men not to talk with their mouths full.  Everyone was bursting with news to tell and too eager to hear it to waste time commenting about oversights in table decorum.  Even the sophomores temporarily—Adam was quite sure it was only temporarily—suspended their traditional taunting of the class below them, and they were all, for once, just a table of friends, sharing the highlights of their holidays.  There wasn’t time for everyone to do justice to that subject, so they shared by classes, beginning with the seniors.  Adam and Jamie promised to give a full account of their adventures in New York when their turn came, most likely at the evening meal.

As soon as breakfast ended, the boys raced for chapel, Adam fastest of all, for as a member of the choir, he needed to be in place at the very beginning.  Jamie lagged behind in order to converse a little more with Marcus, but they were all, even Lucas, in their seats before the second bell rang.

President Woolsey warmly welcomed everyone back.  “And since I know how eager you are to renew your recitations, I shall keep my remarks this morning brief,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.  True to his word, he released them in less than the customary fifteen minutes, and the four freshman friends hurried to the Athenaeum for their first class.

An unfamiliar face greeted Adam, Lucas and Jamie as they took their places in the recitation room.  “Who’s that?” Adam whispered to his seatmate, Lucas.

“Professor Thacher, I think,” Lucas whispered back.  “I thought he taught juniors, though.”  He snickered softly.  “Do you suppose he’s lost his way?”

“I doubt it.  Maybe something’s happened to Mr. Smith, and he’s filling in for him,” Adam suggested, citing the name of their Latin tutor from the previous term.

Lucas shrugged.

Deep-set eyes appraised them from behind a set of spectacles, and Adam caught the barest hint of an upward curve to the lips above the jutting chin.  “I can see from the surprised look on many of your faces,” the teacher said, “that you have not read your catalogs to good purpose.  Does anyone have the slightest idea what class you have just entered?”

Having assumed it would be Latin, as before, Adam and Lucas exchanged a bewildered look; so did most of the other young men in the room.  Finally, James Brand raised a hesitant hand.  “Could it be Ancient Geography and History, sir?”

The teacher’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.  “It could, indeed, Mr. . . . Brand?” he finished, consulting a chart on the lectern before him.

“Yes, sir,” Brand replied.

“And by way of introduction to you and your less prepared fellow students, I am Thomas Thacher, Professor of Latin Language and Literature.”

A student in the front row raised his hand and, when recognized, asked, “Sir, might I ask what has happened to Mr. Smith?”

“Nothing whatsoever, as far as I know,” Thacher chuckled.  “You’ll see him tomorrow at this same hour.  Mr. Wilder Smith will continue to tutor you in the Latin language on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, while you will meet with me on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.”  He then suggested that the students take out notepaper and paused long enough for them to do so.  “Between now and Saturday,” he continued when everyone appeared prepared, “please purchase a copy of Pütz and Arnold’s Manual of Ancient Geography and History and read through the section on the geography of Palestine.  Be prepared to recite on the boundaries of Asia, its principal mountains and waterways and how it was divided in ancient times, as well as the same details for Palestine in particular.”  He picked up a volume, obviously the text in question and consulted the seating chart.  “Would you begin reading the introduction, please, Mr. Edwards?”

Trusting Adam to write down the assignment just given, Jamie stood, took the book from the professor’s hand and began reading the passage to which Thacher pointed.  The remainder of the hour was spent in having one student after another read a few paragraphs, and though the introduction was somewhat lengthy, the students were still released early.

“Phew!” Adam declared as they gathered under the Elm of Assembly.  “Did you see the detail we’re expected to memorize?”

“All the calendars used by man . . . ever . . . is just the beginning,” Lucas groaned.  “I see nothing ahead for me but scholastic disaster.”

“You’ll be fine . . . if you study,” Jamie assured him.  Turning to Marcus, who was in a different division than the others, he quickly explained about the new class.  “I just can’t believe I didn’t consult the catalog again when I vowed I wouldn’t let anything else slip past me after missing the competition for the Literary Medal.”

“Yes,” Adam avowed loftily, “your time would have been much better spent with that than reviewing for a class we didn’t even have.  I told you not to bother preparing!”

“You, of course, foresaw the new schedule,” Jamie scoffed, “and that’s why you didn’t bother to review anything.”

“Of course,” Adam returned with as straight a face as he could manage.  The others hooted their disdain.

“We must get copies of that text right away,” Jamie declared.  “Anyone for heading to the bookstore now?”

“Might as well,” Adam agreed.  “We won’t get far without that book!”

“After dinner is soon enough,” Lucas insisted.  “The book isn’t going anywhere.  Let’s visit the gym, instead.”

“Don’t speak of dinner,” Adam groaned.  “All that talk of mountains and rivers and calendars, especially the oh-so-detailed Republican calendar of the French, has done nothing but create a vast emptiness in me that only Mrs. Swanson’s best can fill.  Unfortunately, my chums, we have another recitation to endure before dinner, and since I have no intention of using the time between in either preparation for that or bodily exercise, which will only increase my hunger, we might as well just purchase the text that is soon to become our closest companion.”

He turned toward the dormitory known as South Middle, where the college bookstore was located, but swung back to face his friends.  Walking backward, he advised, “I give you fair warning, however: as soon as Mr. Nolen releases us from this morning’s torture by Euclid, I shall take immediate flight for the Vultures’ Nest.  Last bird there risks starvation!”  He turned his back and took off at a run toward South Middle with the others shouting, “Unfair!” and racing to catch up, as if even now the race were on against that threat.

* * * * *

            The midday recitation revealed George Nolen still firmly ensconced as their mathematics tutor.  When the instructor announced—with malevolent glee, Lucas later asserted—that this term they would concentrate full time on Euclid’s geometry, predictable groans rippled along the students’ benches.  Adam’s voice was not among them, for he actually enjoyed mathematics and excelled in geometry, only calling it torture to fit in with his friends, but he was almost certain he could hear Jamie’s moans, even though they were two rows apart.

Dinner with the Vultures provided a welcome interlude between classes, and Adam and Jamie easily fell into their former routine of stopping by the post office on their way back to their George Street lodgings to study the assignments that were already piling up.  Study had to wait, though, as there were letters waiting for both boys.

“Father’s found lodgings,” Jamie announced after perusing his letter back in their room.  “Just a boarding house for now, but he says he’ll keep looking for a small house or suite of rooms.  I hope he finds one by term’s end.”

“I do, too,” Adam said.  “Otherwise, you and I will be spending our vacations right here, chum.”

Jamie looked duly glum at that prospect, but quickly brightened as the letter in Adam’s hand caught his eye.  “What news from the Ponderosa?  Has Little Joe gone off chasing any more kitties down D Street?”

Adam laughed.  “Apparently, he’s been good as gold since that incident.  Maybe he heard that Pa was tempted to give him away to the Bowers and is on his best behavior.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Jamie gasped.  “Think how it would upset the little fellow to hear that, Adam.”

“I was teasing,” Adam assured him.  “I’m certain Pa kept that nonsense from him.  As to the letter, it’s about the most boring one Pa’s sent me.  He describes Thanksgiving dinner with the Thomases—no surprises there; then he makes a few comments about the weather and asks about our holidays.”  He grinned.  “I guess I shouldn’t complain.  My next letter home will probably be equally dull, unless Pa is easily excited by my prospect of learning ancient geography this term.”

“Well, if he isn’t, no doubt Hoss and Little Joe will be!” Jamie snickered.

“Oh, go memorize the rivers of Palestine,” Adam grumbled.  “I’m sure that will excite you.”

“More than the Republican calendar of France,” Jamie sparred back.  “I’ll let you concentrate on that.”

Adam scowled.  “Why is it I think Professor Thacher would be bound to ask me about the rivers and you about the calendar if we tried a strategy of divide and conquer?”

“Because you, sir, have one term of college under your belt,” his friend declared in his most worldly-wise voice.

“Precisely.”  Adam pulled out his desk chair and sat down.  Opening the new geography text, he cupped his chin in his hands and began to read.  Next to him, Jamie did the same, and the afternoon was silent, except for the rustle of turning pages and an occasional comment from one diligent student to the other.

When Adam had absorbed all the geographic detail he felt his brain could tolerate at one sitting, he flopped onto the bed to relax with a copy of yesterday’s New York Times, which Robert Raines had passed on to him at dinner.  He skimmed the war news, which always dominated the front page, even when no major battles were being fought; and then he read through a long poem called “The Muster of the North.”  Pure patriotic fodder by comparison with the classics he studied here at Yale, yet one set of verses brought a thoughtful frown to his face:

The students leave their college rooms

Full deep in Greece and Rome,

To make a rival glory

For a better cause near home . . .

Somehow, those few words made his classical studies seem foolishly out of touch with the very real conflict tearing the nation apart.  All his questions about his chosen course surged back to the surface.  To be a student or a soldier—that was the question, to paraphrase Shakespeare.  The issue was settled, though, wasn’t it?  Then why did these few mediocre lines of poetry make him wonder once again if he’d made the right choice?  He wasn’t tempted by the glories of war; he’d learned back in the Paiute war that there were none.  Still—”

“Adam?”

“Hmm?”  Still lost in thought, Adam was slow to look up.

Jamie gazed at him quizzically.  “Everything all right?”

“Sure.”  Adam sat up and stretched, pushing the issue to the back of his mind.  “Want me to quiz you on the those rivers?”

Jamie chuckled.  “Not right now.  Time to leave for Greek class, though you don’t seem to have noticed.  The news must really be absorbing.”

Adam tossed the pages aside.  “Just bad poetry.  Let’s go.”

The third recitation hour was still conducted by Professor Hadley, who seemed genuinely glad to see the students again and spent the first few minutes of class asking about their holidays.  Comfortable as an old shoe, that was Old Had in Adam’s opinion.  Always stimulating, but never one to trap a student by a cleverly worded question.  It felt good to be back in his class, good to be back in all the classes.  In fact, Adam realized with a jolt of surprise, it felt like being home.  Oh, he still missed the Ponderosa, still cherished each bit of news from there, but New Haven, and Yale College in particular, was becoming home, too.  And what were the glories of war, compared to the glories of home?

* * * * *

            Having checked the college catalog to learn the location of Louis Bail’s office, Adam dressed neatly, carefully covered his sketchbook against the ever-present possibility of rain and made his way to the Lyon Building downtown on Saturday afternoon.  He found No. 9 and rapped on the door.  When a man’s voice called, “Come in,” he entered, his attention immediately caught by the framed portraits and sketches of the human head adorning the walls of the office.

“Yes?” the man behind the plain walnut desk asked with an inquiring cock of his head.

“Mr. Bail?” Adam asked.

“Yes.  How may I help you, young man?”

Summoning his courage, Adam introduced himself.  “I’m a student at Yale,” he added.

The quizzical expression on Louis Bail’s face deepened.  “Not one of mine,” he said after careful examination of Adam’s features.

Adam moistened his suddenly dry lips.  “No, sir . . . but I’d like to be.”

Bail relaxed into his chair.  “Ah.  I see.  You wish to be an artist?”

“Oh, no,” Adam said quickly.  “My abilities don’t extend to that.”  If he hadn’t already instinctively known that, a quick glance at the portraits on the wall would have instantly extinguished any hopes he had of artistic greatness.  “I’m interested in pursuing architecture, though, and since you do teach drawing at the college, I thought that . . . perhaps . . . I might . . . well, join the class.”

“I don’t recall seeing you around the yard,” Bail stated.  “Are you actually enrolled or”—he smiled crookedly—“is that, also, something you’d ‘like to be’?”

Adam flushed uncomfortably.  “I’m enrolled,” he said, “but not at Sheffield, where you teach.  I’m in the academic department.”

Bail laughed lightly.  “That would explain why I haven’t seen you.  I don’t mingle much with the academics.  Now, tell me, young man, why you are taking this most unusual path to becoming an architect.”

Oddly enough, being laughed at put Adam more at ease.  “You’re not the first to find that unusual,” he admitted.  Then he began to talk about his early interest in architecture and the series of events that had brought him to Yale, going on to describe his visits to architectural offices in New York City and the encouragement and promise of summer employment that he had received from Addison Bracebridge.

“I’ve heard of the firm,” Bail inserted, “and seen some of their designs.  Good workmanship.  Your summer apprenticeship with them should benefit you.”

“It was Mr. Bracebridge who recommended that I see about taking some drawing courses at Sheffield,” Adam explained.  “Do you think you might see fit to permit me to join your class, sir?”

Lacing his supple fingers above his abdomen, Bail leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Adam’s youthful face more closely.  “What class are you in, Mr. Cartwright?”

Knowing it was likely to be a sticking point, Adam hated to answer that question, but he told the truth.  “I’m a freshman, sir.”

Bail put his head back and laughed aloud, and this time the sound didn’t put Adam at all at ease.  “My dear young man,” Bail finally said, “since you’ve only been a student at Yale for one term, don’t you think your time might best be spent in concentrating on your regular studies and making certain that you matriculate?”

“No,” Adam said.  Then, seeing the teacher’s wide-eyed stare, he added, “I mean, there’s no risk that I won’t matriculate.”  He lifted his head proudly.  “In fact, I stand near the top of my class in all subjects and have only earned a single demerit.”  Frankly, he didn’t think he deserved even that one, but knew that arguing the unfairness of Wilder Smith’s mark would gain him little ground with a fellow teacher.

“Exemplary,” Bail agreed.  “However, you are still new to college life, Mr. Cartwright, and may find it more rigorous as you move into more difficult material.  I would advise you to wait until next year before adding an additional subject to your workload.  After all, you already have one new subject to contend with, and Professor Thacher has a reputation for, shall we say, thoroughness in covering the material?”  His mouth curved upward in a confiding smile.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Adam said slowly, “but I do want to be better prepared for my work this summer.  I’ve brought some of my sketches, and I think you could see right away that I need training.  May I show you?”

“By all means,” the teacher said.  “I’d be most interested.”

Adam opened his portfolio and spread his sketches of the State House, as well as the one he’d drawn of the church in New York City, before the instructor.  Bail studied them carefully, nodding at some moments, frowning at others.  “I know I don’t have the perspective correct,” Adam ventured hesitantly.

“No, you don’t,” Bail agreed readily.  He pulled one sketch toward him.  “It should be more like this,” he said, quickly drawing lines to the side of Adam’s original.  “Shorten this line; lengthen that one, more at this angle.”

“Yes, I see,” Adam said eagerly.  “That’s just what I was missing.”  Eyes gleaming with hope, he looked up.  “Oh, sir, won’t you reconsider?  I promise you I would keep up with my regular studies and diligently complete any assignment you gave me.”

Bail held up a restraining hand.  “Have you read the college catalog?” he asked.

Adam slumped.  Was that every professor’s favorite question or did it just seem that way?  “I looked up your address in it,” he said with a sheepish smile.  “Was there something else I should have read?”

Bail laughed.  “The fact that I don’t teach architectural drawing until the third term might have been pertinent,” he suggested.

“Oh,” Adam said, deflated, suddenly feeling that he’d made a complete idiot of himself by coming here today.  Not exactly the way to impress a new teacher!

Bail reached out to pat the young man’s arm.  “I think it’s for the best anyway, Mr. Cartwright.  You need at least one more term without added responsibilities.”

The spark of hope rekindling in his eye, Adam raised his head.  “Then you might agree to accept me next term?”

“I might,” Bail conceded.  “I would need to discuss this unusual request with the rest of the faculty, so I make no guarantees.  However, if you continue to do as well in your academic work as you’ve begun and in view of Bracebridge’s interest in you, see me again when you’ve finished your second term exams and we’ll discuss this matter further.”

“Thank you, sir!” Adam cried with enthusiasm.  “I can’t tell you how much this means!”

Bail chuckled.  “I have a fair idea, by the look on your face.  I’ll look forward to seeing you in April, Mr. Cartwright.”

“I’ll be here . . . and thank you again,” Adam said, gathering up his sketches.  “I’ve taken up enough of your time, so I’ll just thank you—”

“Again?” Bail teased.  “You’re beginning to babble, young Mr. Cartwright.  Work on that perspective and bring me your best sketch when you come in April.”

“Yes, sir; I will, sir,” Adam promised.  Then, realizing that he was babbling yet again, he said good-bye quickly and left the office.

Rain was pouring down steadily as he stepped onto the sidewalk.  Putting up the umbrella, he shook his head in disgust.  Rain.  Again.  It didn’t take any scientific know-how to predict the weather in New Haven: just predict rain and you’d be right, nine times out of ten.  And only one umbrella between him and his roommate.  On days like today, when one of them had a separate errand, the other was either confined to the room or left to the whim of the elements.  Since Adam intended to get back into the routine of visiting the gymnasium each morning, while Jamie still preferred to study at the library between first and second recitation, sharing one umbrella was becoming impractical.  More than impractical—penny wise and pound foolish, Adam decided.  He made his way toward Chapel Street and, turning into J. H. Coley and Sons’ dry goods store, chose a serviceable umbrella, dickered the price down a bit and made the purchase.

* * * * *

            Adam was surprised to hear a deep sigh coming from his friend as they exited from morning chapel on Sunday.  “Sermon strike a bit close to home?” he asked roguishly.

Jamie smiled weakly.  “The trouble is, rather, being far from home, my dear chum.”  Seeing that Adam did not understand, he explained, “I’m feeling a trifle melancholy today.  I was used to being apart from Father during the week, but we always met here after chapel on Sundays, remember?”

“Melancholy is a serious ailment, young man,” Adam intoned solemnly, stroking his imaginary chin whiskers.  “Fortunately, my vast medical research has suggested the perfect cure.”

“Surely you don’t intend to prescribe a walk, Dr. Cartwright.”  From beneath its shelter, Jamie pointed heavenward with his open umbrella.  “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.”

“Again,” Adam moaned.  “Does it ever miss a day?”

“Not lately,” Jamie laughed, “but a hot and filling dinner in our nice dry nest is the best antidote.”

“Agreed.”  As both boys headed toward the Vultures’ Nest, Adam observed, “I still think a walk would do you good, get your mind off that abominable homesickness . . . for a home you’ve never even seen, I might point out.”

Jamie gave his friend a shove as he skipped over a puddle.  “Father is home to me, wherever he is.  Isn’t that how you feel about your family?  Or is it only the pine trees you miss?”

Adam tipped Jamie’s umbrella back just long enough to see his face splashed.  “That is a decidedly wicked twinkle in your eye, sir, for someone who’s just left church,” he chided.

Jamie mopped his damp cheeks.  “You’re merely seeing a reflection of the mischief in your own, I assure you.”

Chuckling, Adam conceded the point in that duel of wits to Jamie.  “Maybe a walk back to George Street will be sufficient exercise, given the weather,” he said.  “I still need to drill those rivers, mountains and islands of India into my head, but I’ll definitely need fortification before facing that.”

They walked a block in silence, and then Jamie ventured, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk over to Dwight Street, instead.”

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Adam assured him, “though that doesn’t seem like much of a destination.  What’s on Dwight?”

“The Sunday school mission,” Jamie answered.  “Maybe volunteering—keeping busy, I mean—would keep me from missing those afternoons with Father.”

“Maybe,” Adam conceded.  Teaching a roomful of restless boys and girls didn’t appeal to him as a way to spend a free afternoon, but a future clergyman no doubt saw the opportunity differently.  “You’ll really need fortification for that,” he teased.  “On to the Vultures’ Nest!”