He was bullied
at school until his appointment as his dormitory's story-teller gave
him a certain status, but his efforts at cricket and football were
mocked with jeers and insults. He could not throw a cricket-ball, he
could not see to catch one after it was thrown to him, did he try to
kick a football he missed it, and when he had run for five minutes he
saw purple skies and silver stars and has cramp in his legs. He had,
however, during these years at Mr. Lasher's, this great over mastering
ambition.
In his sleep, at any rate, he was a hero; in the wide-awake world he
was, in the opinion of almost every one, a fool. He was exactly the type
of boy whom the Rev. William Lasher could least easily understand. Mr.
Lasher was tall and thin (his knees often cracked with a terrifying
noise), blue-black about the cheeks hooked as to the nose, bald and
shining as to the head, genial as to the manner, and practical to the
shining tips of his fingers. He has not, at Cambridge, obtained a rowing
blue, but "had it not been for a most unfortunate attack of scarlet
fever-----" He was President of the Clinton St.
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