father for the past six months. "But I've told you a hundred times, dad, that I didn't want to work in the bank this Summer. I want to sell washing machines again and earn money to go to college. And I've told you I don't want to go to work for Uncle Peter. I don't want to spend the rest of my life making drop forgings. I want to go to college, to be a well-rounded individual ready to assume his proper place as a citizen of this great world of ours. I want to form associations in four glorious carefree years of my youth that will be more precious in the time to come than great riches. I want—"
But how could workaday Henry Lamb, bookkeeper for the First National Bank of Sanford, be expected to appreciate and agree with the words of Dean Pennypacker's baccalaureate sermon just delivered at the Tate commencement exercises and now quoted by Harold as if they represented the sum of the ages' wisdom?
Henry Lamb retorted testily, "Now, look here, Harold, just you put up that ball bat and that football and take off those fool clothes. Go right back to bed this instant. There's been enough complaint at the bank about your work already without tiring yourself out nights with this traipsing around. Just remember this—you ain't got any more
