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           He’llfailhisexams,tutorallsummeratHarstrum’s,getintoSheffwithaboutfourconditions,andflunkoutinthemiddleofthefreshmanyear.Thenhe’llgobackWestandraisehellforayearorso;finallyhisfatherwillmakehimgointothepaintbusiness.He’llmarryandhavefoursons,allboneheads.He’llalwaysthinkSt.Regis’sspoiledhim,sohe’llsendhissonstodayschoolinPortland.He’lldieoflocomotorataxiawhenhe’sforty-one,andhiswifewillgiveabaptizingstandorwhateveryoucallittothePresbyterianChurch,withhisnameonit—"

           "Holdup,Amory.That’stoodarnedgloomy.Howaboutyourself?"

           "I’minasuperiorclass.Youare,too.We’rephilosophers."

           "I’mnot."

           "Sureyouare.You’vegotadarngoodheadonyou."ButAmoryknewthatnothingintheabstract,notheoryorgenerality,evermovedRahilluntilhestubbedhistoeupontheconcreteminutiaeofit.

           "Haven’t,"insistedRahill."Iletpeopleimposeonmehereanddon’tgetanythingoutofit.I’mthepreyofmyfriends,damnit—dotheirlessons,get’emoutoftrouble,pay’emstupidsummervisits,andalwaysentertaintheirkidsisters;keepmytemperwhentheygetselfishandthentheythinktheypaymebackbyvotingformeandtellingmeI’mthe’bigman’ofSt.Regis’s.IwanttogetwhereeverybodydoestheirownworkandIcantellpeoplewheretogo.I’mtiredofbeingnicetoeverypoorfishinschool."

           "You’renotaslicker,"saidAmorysuddenly.

           "Awhat?"

           "Aslicker."