Such a word as brilliant had never been coupled with the name of Jem even
by his best friend in earnest or his worst enemy in irony. Such sarcasm
were too shallow to be worth sounding even in disparagement. But we never
know what an obituary notice may bring. Not only had he been endowed with
many virtues, manly qualities, and the record of noble deeds, but more
substantial honours had been heaped upon his fallen crest or pinned upon
his breathless bosom. To some of his distant countrymen he was the proud
possessor of the Victoria Cross, awarded him post-mortem in the heat of
obituary enthusiasm by more than one local paper. To others he was held
up by what is called a Representative Press as a second Crichton. And all
this because he was dead. Such is glory.
All unconscious of these honours, honest Jem Agar sat in his little
tent, nibbling the end of his penholder--the gift, by the way, of his
father--and wishing that he had bought a Letts's diary with six days in a
page instead of three.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96