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Updated: June 22, 2025
Now that I come to think of it, it was Uncle Rilas who oracularly prejudged me, and not Uncle John, who was by way of being a sort of literary chap himself and therefore lamentably unqualified to guide me in any course whatsoever, especially as he had all he could do to keep his own wolf at bay without encouraging mine, and who, besides teaching good English, loved it wisely and too well.
Old Conrad returned to life at that instant and stamped out the incipient blaze. "I shouldn't consider them very good clubs, Harold, if they break off like that," said his mother. "What do you know about clubs?" he snapped, and I at once knew what class he was in at the preparatory school. If I was ever like one of these, said I to myself, God rest the sage soul of my Uncle Rilas!
I think Uncle Rilas would have held Uncle John up to me as an example, a scarecrow, you might say, if it hadn't been for the fact that he loved him in spite of his English. He must have loved me in spite of mine. My mother felt in her heart that I ought to be a doctor or a preacher, but she wasn't mean: she was positive I could succeed as a writer if I set my mind to it.
I confess I was somewhat disturbed by one of her gentlest remarks. She seemed to be repeating my Uncle Rilas, although I am quite sure she had never heard of him. She argued that the fortune might take wings and fly away, and then what would be to pay! Of course, it was perfectly clear to me, stupid as I must have been, that she preferred the jeweller's clerk to a fortune.
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