Benjamin had been beguiled from his books into an unaccustomed game of ball in the cold March air.  He had taken off his jacket and had got very hot with his unwonted exertions.  A reactionary chill followed.  Benjamin had a slight cold, which being ignored, developed rapidly into a heavy one, still without inducing the energetic lad to ask to be put upon the sick list.  Was not the publishing day of Our Own at hand?

The cold became graver with the same rapidity, and almost as soon as the boy had made complaint he was in a high fever, and the official doctor declared that pneumonia had set in.  In the night Benjamin was delirious, and the nurse summoned the doctor, and next morning his condition was so critical that his father was telegraphed for.  There was little to be done by science—­all depended on the patient’s constitution.  Alas! the four years of plenty and country breezes had not counteracted the eight and three-quarter years of privation and foul air, especially in a lad more intent on emulating Dickens and Thackeray than on profiting by the advantages of his situation.

When Moses arrived he found his boy tossing restlessly in a little bed, in a private little room away from the great dormitories.  “The matron”—­a sweet-faced young lady—­was bending tenderly over him, and a nurse sat at the bedside.  The doctor stood—­waiting—­at the foot of the bed.  Moses took his boy’s hand.  The matron silently stepped aside.  Benjamin stared at him with wide, unrecognizing eyes.

“Nu, how goes it, Benjamin?” cried Moses in Yiddish, with mock heartiness.

“Thank you, old Four-Eyes.  It’s very good of you to come.  I always said there mustn’t be any hits at you in the paper.  I always told the fellows you were a very decent chap.”

“What says he?” asked Moses, turning to the company.  “I cannot understand English.”

They could not understand his own question, but the matron guessed it.  She tapped her forehead and shook her head for reply.  Benjamin closed his eyes and there was silence.  Presently he opened them and looked straight at his father.  A deeper crimson mantled on the flushed cheek as Benjamin beheld the dingy stooping being to whom he owed birth.  Moses wore a dirty red scarf below his untrimmed beard, his clothes were greasy, his face had not yet been washed, and—­for a climax—­he had not removed his hat, which other considerations than those of etiquette should have impelled him to keep out of sight.

“I thought you were old Four-Eyes,” the boy murmured in confusion—­“Wasn’t he here just now?”

“Go and fetch Mr. Coleman,” said the matron, to the nurse, half-smiling through tears at her own knowledge of the teacher’s nickname and wondering what endearing term she was herself known by.

“Cheer up, Benjamin,” said his father, seeing his boy had become sensible of his presence.  “Thou wilt be all right soon.  Thou hast been much worse than this.”