mostly to 70's and 75's. His father studied it and was frankly displeased.
"This is bad," he said without preamble.
The boy thought that the wisest course was to say nothing.
"You had been getting around 90 in everything. Now you're just missing the line of failure. What's the trouble?"
Bert saw that he would have to make a defense. "Well, you used to help. . . ."
"That's a poor excuse," his father interrupted. "It's a sign of weakness. If I were the richest man in the world I could buy you houses, motor cars, yachts, jewelry, clothes, the watchful care of servants, but there would be one thing my money could not get you—knowledge. You've got to dig that out for yourself. Don't tell me you failed because I did not help you. You haven't been studying. Isn't that right?"
"I. . . . Yes," said the boy. He had suddenly decided to tell the truth about studying, anyway. Yet he felt that there was another angle over which he had had no control. If the evenings around the reading lamp had continued. . . .
"Why couldn't Bert bring his books to the store now and then?" his mother asked.
He flashed her a glance and knew, instinctively, that she understood.
"No reason in the world why he can't," said his father.
