It is not my intention to dwell too long upon the first stages of my tutorship, which presented few difficulties not easily surmounted, but it is necessary in order to understand Jerry’s character that I set down a few facts which show certain phases of his development.  Of his physical courage, at thirteen, I need only relate an incident of one of our winter expeditions.  We were hunting coons one night with the dogs, a collie and the bull pup, which now rejoiced in the name of Skookums, already mentioned.  The dogs treed their game three miles from the Manor house, and when we came up were running around the tree, whimpering and barking in a high state of excitement.  The night was dark and the branches of the tree were thick, so we could see nothing, but Jerry clambered up, armed with a stout stick, and disappeared into the gloom overhead.

“Do you see him?” I called.

“I see something, but it looks too big for a coon,” he returned.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks more like a cat, with queer-looking ears.”

“You’d better come down then, Jerry,” I said quickly.

“It looks like a lynx,” he called again, quite unperturbed.

It was quite possible that he was right, for in this part of the Catskill country lynxes were still plentiful.

“Then come down at once,” I shouted.  “He may go for you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.  I have my hunting knife,” he said coolly.

“Come down, do you hear?” I commanded.

“Not until he does,” he replied with a laugh.

I called again.  Jerry didn’t reply, for just then there was a sudden shaking of the dry leaves above me, the creaking of a bough and the snarl of a wild animal, and the sound of a blow.

“Jerry!” I cried.  No reply, but the sound of the struggle overhead increased, dreadful sounds of snarling and of scratching, but no sound of Jerry.  Fearful of imminent tragedy, I climbed quickly, amid the uproar of the dogs, and, knife in hand, had got my feet an the lower branches, when a heavy weight shot by me and fell to the ground.  Thank God, not the boy!

“Jerry!” I cried again, clambering upward.

“A-all r-right, Mr. Canby,” I heard.  “You’re safe, not hurt?”

“I’m all right, I think.  Just just scratched.”

By this time I had reached him.  He was braced in the crotch of a limb, leaning against the tree trunk still holding his hunting knife.  His coat was wet and I guessed at rather than saw the pallor of his face Below were the sounds of the dogs worrying at the animal.

“I I guess they’ve finished him,” said Jerry coolly sheathing his knife.

“It’s lucky he didn’t finish you,” I muttered.  “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Oh, no.”

“Can you get down alone?”

“Yes, of course.”

But I helped him down, nevertheless, and he reached the ground in safety, where I saw that his face at least had escaped damage.  But the sleeve of his coat was torn to ribbons, and the blood was dripping from his finger ends.

“Come,” I said, taking his arm, “we’ll have to get you attended to.”  And then severely:  “You disobeyed me, Jerry.  Why didn’t you come down?”

He hesitated a moment, smiling, and then:  “I had no idea a lynx was so large.”

“It’s a miracle,” I said in wonder at his escape.  “How did you hang on?”

“I saw him spring and braced myself in time,” he said simply, “and putting my elbow over my head, struck with my knife when he was on me two, three, many times until he let go.  But I was glad, very glad when he fell.”

I drove the dogs away, lifted the dead beast over my shoulder and led the way to the dog cart, which we had left in the road half a mile off, reaching the Manor house very bloody but happy.  But the happiest of the lot of us, even including Skookums, the bull pup, was Jerry himself at the sight under the lamplight of the formidable size of his dead enemy.  But I led Jerry at once upstairs, where I stripped him and took account of his injuries.

His left arm was bitten twice and his neck and shoulder badly torn, but he had not whimpered, nor did he now when I bathed and cauterized his wounds.  Whatever pain he felt, he made no sign, and I knew that by inference my night-talks by the campfire had borne fruit.  Old Christopher, the butler, to whom the Great Experiment was a mystery, hovered in the background with towels and lotions, timidly reproachful, until Jerry laughed at him and sent him to bed, muttering something about the queer goings on at Horsham Manor.

This incident is related to show that Jerry had more courage than most boys of his years.  Part of it was inherent, of course, but most of it was born of the habit, learned early, to be sure of himself in any emergency.  There was little doubt in my mind that there was some of the stuff in Jerry of which heroes are made.  I thought so then, for I was proud of my handiwork.  I did not know, alas! to what tests my philosophy and John Benham’s were to be subjected.  All of which goes to show that in running counter to human nature the wisest plans, the greatest sagacity, are as chaff before the winds of destiny.  But to continue: 

The following summer Jerry gave further proofs of his presence of mind in an accident of which I was the victim.  For while trudging with Jerry along a rocky hillside I stepped straight into the death trap of a rattlesnake.  He struck me below the knee, and we were a long way from help.  But the boy was equal to the emergency.  Quite coolly he killed the snake with a club.  I fortunately kept my head and directed him, though he knew just what to do.  With his hunting knife he cut my trouser leg away and double gashed my leg where the fangs had entered, then sucked the wound and spat out the poison until the blood had ceased to flow.  Then he quickly made a tourniquet of his handkerchief and fastened it just above the wound, and, making me comfortable, he ran the whole distance to the house, bringing a motor car and help in less than an hour.  There isn’t the slightest doubt that Jerry saved my life on this occasion just as the following winter I saved him from death at the horns of a mad buck deer.

You will not wonder therefore that the bond of affection and reliance was strong between us.  I gave Jerry of the best that was in me, and in return I can truly say that not once did he disappoint me.

In addition to the woodlore that I taught him, I made him a good shot with rifle and revolver.  I had men from the city from time to time, the best of their class, who taught him boxing and fencing.  I had a gymnasium built with Mr. Ballard’s consent, and a swimming pool, which kept him busy after the lesson hour.  At the age of fifteen Jerry was six feet tall and weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds, all bone and muscle.  In the five years since I had been at Horsham Manor there had not been a day when he was ill, and except for an occasional accident such as the adventure with the lynx, not one when I had called in the services of a doctor.  Physically at least I had so far succeeded, for in this respect Jerry was perfection.

As to his mind, perhaps my own ideals had made me too exacting.  According to my carefully thought out plans, scholarship was to be Jerry’s buckler and defense against the old Adam.  God forbid that I should have planned, as Jack Ballard would have had it, to build Jerry in my own image, for if scholarship had been my own refuge it had also done something to destroy my touch with human kind.  It was the quality of sympathy in Jerry which I had lacked, the love for and confidence in every human being with whom he came into contact which endeared him to every person on the place.  From Radford to Christopher, throughout the house, stables and garage, down to the humblest hedge-trimmer, all loved Jerry and Jerry loved them all.  He had that kind of nature.  He couldn’t help loving those about him any more than he could help breathing, and yet it must not be supposed that the boy was lacking in discernment.  Our failings, weaknesses and foibles were a constant source of amusement to him, but his humor was without malice and his jibes were friendly, and he ran the gamut of my own exposed nerve pulps with such joyous consideration that I came to like the operation.  He loved me and I knew it.

But nothing could make him love his Latin grammar.  He worried through arithmetic and algebra and blarneyed his French and German tutors into making them believe he knew more than he did, but the purely scientific aspects of learning did not interest him.  It was only when he knew enough to read the great epics in the original that my patience had its reward.  The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid held him in thrall, and by some magic eliminated at a bound the purely mechanical difficulties which had fettered him.  Hector, Achilles, Agamemnon, Ulysses Jerry was each of these in turn, lacking only the opportunity to vanquish heroic foes or capture impregnable cities.

I had not censored the Homeric gods, as Jerry’s father had commanded, and my temerity led to difficulties.  It began with Calypso and Ulysses and did not even end when Dido was left alone upon the shores of Carthage.

“I don’t understand it at all,” he said one day with a wrinkled brow, “how a man of the caliber of Ulysses could stay so long the prisoner of Calypso, a woman, when he wanted to go home.  It’s a pretty shabby business for a hero and a demigod.  A woman!” he sneered, “I’d like to see any woman keep me sitting in a cave if I wanted to go anywhere!”

His braggadicio was the full-colored boyish reflection of the Canby point of view.  I had merely shrugged woman out of existence.  Now Jerry castigated her.

“What could she do?” he went on scornfully.  “She couldn’t shoot or run or fight.  All she did was to lie around or strut about with a veil around her head and a golden girdle (sensible costume!) and serve the hero with ambrosia and ruddy nectar.  I’ve never eaten ambrosia, but I’m pretty sure it was some sweet, sticky stuff, like her.”  There is no measure for the contempt of his accents.

“She could swim,” I ventured timidly.

“Swim!  Even a fish can swim!”

I don’t know why, but at this conversation, the first of Jerry’s maturer years in which the topic had been woman, I felt a slight tremor go over me.  Jerry was too good to look at.  I fancied that there were many women who would have liked to see the flash of his eye at that moment and to meet his challenge with their wily arts.  In the pride of his masculine strength and capacity he scorned them as I had taught him.  I had done my work well.  Had I done it too well?’

“What are women anyway?” he stormed at me again.  “For what good are they?  To wash linen and have white arms like Nausicaa?  Who cares whether her arms were white or not?  They’re always weeping because they’re loved or raging because they’re not.  Love!  Always love!  I love you and Christopher and Radford and Skookums, but I’m not always whining about it.  What’s the use?  Those things go without saying.  They’re simply what are in a fellow’s heart, but he doesn’t talk about them.”

“Quite right.  Jerry.  Let’s say no more about it.”

“I’m glad there are no women around here, but now that I come to think of it, I don’t see why there shouldn’t be.”

“Your father liked men servants best.  He believed them to be more efficient.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” and then, suddenly:  “When I go out beyond the wall I’ll have to see them and talk to them, won’t I?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Well, I don’t want to.”

He paused a second and then went on.  “But I am a little curious about them.  Of course, they’re silly and useless and flabby, but it seems queer that there are such a lot of ’em.  If they’re no good, why don’t they pass out of existence?  That’s the rule of life, you tell me, the survival of the fittest.  If they’re not fit they ought to have died out long ago.”

“You can’t keep them from being born, Jerry,” I laughed.

“Well,” he said scornfully, “it ought to be prevented.”

I made a pretense of cutting the leaves of a book.  He was going too far.  I temporized.

“Ah, they’re all right, Jerry,” I said with some magnificence, “if they do their duty.  Some are much better than others.  Now, Miss Redwood, for instance, your governess.  She was kind, willing and affectionate.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “she was all right, but she wasn’t like a man.”

I had him safe again.  Physical strength and courage at this time were his fetish.  But he was still thoughtful.

“Sometimes I think, Roger” (he called me Roger now, for after all I was more like an elder brother than a father to him), “sometimes I think that things are too easy for me; that I ought to be out doing my share in the work of the world.”

“Oh, that will come in time.  If you think things are too easy, I might manage to make them a little harder.”

He laughed affectionately and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Oh, no, you don’t, old Dry-as-dust.  Not books.  That isn’t what I meant.  I mean life, struggles against odds.  I’ve just been wondering what chance I’d have to get, along by myself, without a lot of people waiting on me.”

“I’ve tried to show you, Jerry.  You can go into the woods with a gun and an ax and exist in comfort.”

“Yes, but the world isn’t all woods; and axes and guns aren’t the only weapons.”

“But the principle is the same.”

He flashed a bright glance at me.

“Flynn told me yesterday that I could make good in the prize ring if I’d let him take me in hand.”

(The deuce he had!  Flynn would lose his engagement as a boxing teacher if he didn’t heed my warnings better.)

“The prize ring is not what you’re being trained for, my young friend,” I said with some asperity.

“What then?” he asked.

“First of all I hope I’m training you to be a gentleman.  And that means ”

“Can’t a boxer be a gentleman?” he broke in quickly.

“He might be, I suppose, but he usually isn’t.”  He was forcing me into an attitude of priggishness which I regretted.

“Then why,” he persisted, “are you having me taught to box?”

“Chiefly to make your muscles hard, to inure you to pain, to teach you self-reliance.”

“But I oughtn’t to learn to box then, if it’s going to keep me from being a gentleman.  What is a gentleman, Roger?”

I tried to think of a succinct generalization and failed, falling back instinctively upon safe ground.

“Christ was a gentleman, Jerry,” I said quietly.

“Yes,” he assented soberly, “Christ.  I would like to be like Christ, but I couldn’t be meek, Roger, and I like to box and shoot ”

“He was a man, Jerry, the most courageous the world has ever known.  He was even not afraid to die for an ideal.  He was meek, but He was not afraid to drive the money changers from the temple.”

“Yes, that was good.  He was strong and gentle, too.  He was wonderful.”

I have merely suggested this part of the conversation to show the feeling of reverence and awe with which the boy regarded the Savior.  The life of Christ had caught his imagination and its lessons had sunk deeply into his spirit, touching chords of gentleness that I had never otherwise been able to reach.  His religion had begun with Miss Redwood and he had clung to it instinctively as he had clung to the vague memory of his mother.  No word of mine and no teaching was to destroy so precious a heritage.  He was not goody-goody about it.  No boy who did and said and thought the things that Jerry did could be accused of prudery or sentimentalism.  But in his quieter moods I knew that he thought deeply of sacred things.

But this conversation with Jerry had warned me that the time was approaching when the boy would want to think for himself.  Already in our nature-talks some of his questions had embarrassed me.  He had seen birds hatched from their eggs and had marveled at it.  The mammals and their young had mystified him and he had not been able to understand it.  I had reverted to the process of development of the embryo of the seed into a perfect plant.  I had waxed scientific, he had grown bewildered.  We had reached our impasse.  In the end we had compromised.  Unable to comprehend, Jerry had ascribed the propagation of the species to a miracle of God.  And since that was the precise truth I had been content to let the matter rest there.

But there was another problem that our conversation had suggested:  the choice of a vocation.  The proposition of the misguided Flynn had made me aware of the fact that I was already letting my charge drift toward the maws of the great unknown which began just beyond the Wall without a plan of life save that he should be a “gentleman.”  It occurred to me with alarming suddenness that the term “gentleman” was that frequently applied to persons who had no occupation or visible means of support.  Nowhere in John Benham’s instructions was there mention of any plan for a vocation.  Obviously if the old man had intended Jerry for a business career he would have said so, and the omission of any exact instructions convinced me that such an idea was furthest from John Benham’s thoughts.  It remained for me to decide the matter in the best way that I could, for determined I was that Jerry, merely because of the possession of much worldly goods, should not be that bane of humanity and of nations, an idler.

At about this period Mr. Ballard the elder came down to Horsham Manor on one of his visits of inspection and inquiry.  He brought up the subject of his own accord.

“What do you think, Canby, what have you planned about Jerry’s future?”

I told him that my only ambition, so far, had been to make of Jerry a gentleman and a scholar.

“Yes, of course,” he nodded.  “That’s what you are here for.  But beyond that?”

“Nothing,” I replied.  “I am following my instructions from Mr. Benham.  They go no further than that.”

He frowned into the fire.

“That’s all very well as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough.  Jerry is now eighteen.  Do you realize that in three years he comes into possession of five million dollars, an income of over two hundred thousand a year; and that in seven years, at twenty-five, the executors must relinquish the entire estate?”

I had not thought of the imminence of this disaster.

“I was not aware, Mr. Ballard,” I said.  “At the present moment Jerry doesn’t know a dollar from a nickel.”

He opened his eyes wide and examined me as though he feared he had not heard correctly or as though it were blasphemy, heresy that I was uttering.

“You mean that he doesn’t know the value and uses of money?”

“So far as I am aware,” I replied coolly, “he has never seen a piece of money in his life.”

“All wrong, all wrong, Canby.  This won’t do at all.  He had his arithmetic, percentage and so forth?”

“Yes.  But money doesn’t interest him.  Can you see any reason why it should?”

Again the frown and level gaze.

“And what had you planned for him?” he asked.  He did not intend to be satirical perhaps.  He was merely worldly.

“I thought when the time came he might be permitted to choose a vocation for himself.  In the meanwhile ”

“A vocation!” he snapped.  “Isn’t the controlling interest in a transcontinental line of railroad vocation enough?  To say nothing of coal, copper and iron mines, a steel mill or two and a fleet of steamers?”

He overpowered me for the moment.  I had not thought of Jerry as being all these things.  To me he was merely Jerry.  But I struggled upward through the miasma of oppressive millions and met the issue squarely.

“There is nothing in John Benham’s advice which directs any vocational instruction,” I said staunchly.  “I was to bring the boy to the age of manhood without realization of sin.”

“A dream, Canby.  Utopian, impossible!”

“It has not proved so,” I replied, nettled.  “I am merely following instructions, Mr. Benham’s instructions through you to me.  The dream is very real to Jerry.”

Mr. Ballard gazed into the fire and smiled.

“The executors are permitted some license in this matter.  We are entirely satisfied with your work.  We have no desire to modify in the slightest degree the purely moral character of your instruction or indeed to change his mode of life.  Indeed, I think we all agree that you are carrying out with rare judgment the spirit if not the actual letter of John Benham’s wishes.  Jerry is a wonderful boy.  But in our opinion the time has come when his mind should be slowly shaped to grasp the essentials of the great career that awaits him.”

“I can be of no assistance to you, Mr. Ballard,” I said dryly.

“We think the time has arrived,” he went on, passing over my remark as though it hadn’t been uttered, “for Jerry to have some instruction from one versed in the theory, if not the practice, of business.  It is our purpose to engage a professor from a school of finance of one of the universities to work with Jerry for a part of each summer.”

I did not dare to speak for fear of saying something I might regret.  Thus far he was within his rights, I knew, but had he proposed to take Jerry into the cafes of Broadway that night, he couldn’t have done my plans for the boy a greater hurt.  He was proposing nothing less than an assault upon my barriers of idealism.  He was going to take the sentient thing that was Jerry and make of him an adding machine.  Would he?  Could he?  I found courage in a smile.

“Of course, if that is your desire,” I managed at last, “I have nothing to say except that if you had asked my opinion I should have advised against it.”

“I’m sorry, Canby,” he finished, “but the matter has already been taken out of your hands.”

Youth fortunately is the age of the most lasting impressions.  Dr. Carmichael, of the Hobart School of Finance of Manhattan University, came and went, but he made no appreciable ripple in the placid surface of Jerry’s philosophy.  He cast stone after stone into the lovely pool of Jerry’s thoughts, which broke the colorful reflections into smaller images, but did not change them.  And when he was gone the pool was as before he came.  Jerry listened politely as he did to all his masters and learned like a parrot what was required of him, but made no secret of his missing interest and enthusiasm.  I watched furtively, encouraging Jerry, as my duty was, to do his tasks as they were set before him.  But I knew then what I had suspected before, that they would never make a bond-broker of Jerry.  I had but to say a word, to give but a sign and bring about an overt rebellion.  But I was too wise to do that.  I merely watched the widening circles in the pool and saw them lost in the border of dreamland.

Jerry learned, of course, the difference between a mortgage and an insurance policy; he knew the meaning of economics, the theory of supply and demand, and gained a general knowledge which I couldn’t have given him of the general laws of barter and trade.  But he followed Carmichael listlessly.  What did he care for bonds and receiverships when the happy woods were at his elbow, the wild-flowers beckoning, his bird neighbors calling?  Where I had appealed to Jerry through his imagination, Carmichael used only the formulae of matter and fact.  There was but one way in which he could have succeeded, and that was through the picture of the stupendous agencies of which Jerry was to be the master:  the fast-flying steamers, the monster engines on their miles of rails, the glowing furnaces, the sweating figures in the heat and grime of smoke and steam, the energy, the inarticulate power, the majesty of labor which bridged oceans, felled mountains and made animate the sullen rock.  All this I saw, as one day Jerry should see it.  But I did not speak.  The time was not yet.  Jerry’s understanding of these things would come, but not until I had prepared him for them.