Unfortunately he had made himself popular that afternoon, and the next time a gang formed for a similar purpose, he was asked to join.  But he shook his head, and being foolishly truthful by nature, he blurted out an embarrassed: 

“My mother won’t let me.”

The answer was passed along.  It was repeated in school the next day.  Keith heard echoes of it for weeks.  And it added a good deal to the invisible wall that seemed to rise about him wherever he went.

Yet he was not unhappy.  There was in his nature a wonderful resiliency that never let his spirits drop beyond a certain point, and that always brought them back to highwater mark at the slightest encouragement.

V

He had discovered the school library.  It was to him a marvellous treasure trove.  Any book could be taken home, one at a time, after being registered with the teacher acting as librarian for the day.  Nor were the books handed out to you arbitrarily.  You browsed all by yourself, and picked and picked, and calculated, and went back on your choice a dozen times, until at last you struck a book so fascinating in its promises that all hesitation disappeared.

The father started to object, but was silenced by the explanation that the school authorities wanted the boys to borrow books from the library.  That settled it, for discipline came first and even pleasure must be allowed if required by discipline.  Had Keith been less honest or more imaginative in what may be called practical matters, his father’s regard for authority might have offered more than one chance at liberties now denied, but this possibility never occurred to him, and so the library remained his one avenue of escape.

The books he chose puzzled and almost shocked the rotatory guardians of his sanctum.  Once he picked an enormous volume on Greek mythology, full of pictures and translated passages from Homer and the dramatists.

“You don’t want that, Wellander,” the teacher said, eying him curiously, when Keith presented the book for registration.

“Yes, I do,” replied Keith stoutly, but his heart began to quake at the thought that the cherished volume was going to be denied him.

“Do you mean to say that you intend to read it through?” the teacher persisted.

“Yes, I will,” said Keith.

There was a long pause during which the teacher seemed to weigh the book in his hand as if wondering whether its very weight would be too much for the undersized little chap in front of him.

“All right,” he said at last, “but I suppose that means you will have reading for the rest of this season.”

Keith looked at the book more hopefully, and with hope came courage.

“I’ll read it in three weeks,” he said.

So he did, too, and when he turned in the book, the same teacher happened to be on duty, recognized him, and began to ask questions.  When Keith had proved that the whole Olympian hierarchy was duly installed in his acquisitive brain, the teacher said with an amused but friendly smile: