Meanwhile he was
on capital terms with his little world, which seemed to
take pleasure in hailing him by his Christian name; even
morose Jim Webster, who had failed three times in
groceries, said "Morning, Lorne" with a look of
toleration. He moved alertly; the poise of his head was
sanguine; the sun shone on him; the timidest soul came
nearer to him. He and Elmore Crow, who walked beside him,
had gone through the lower forms of the Elgin Collegiate
Institute together, that really "public" kind of school
which has so much to do with reassorting the classes of
a new country. The Collegiate Institute took in raw
material and turned out teachers, more teachers than
anything. The teachers taught, chiefly in rural districts
where they could save money, and with the money they
saved changed themselves into doctors, Fellows of the
University, mining engineers. The Collegiate Institute
was a potential melting-pot: you went in as your simple
opportunities had made you; how you shaped coming out
depended upon what was hidden in the core of you. You
could not in any case be the same as your father before
you; education in a new country is too powerful a
stimulant for that, working upon material too plastic
and too hypothetical; it is not yet a normal force, with
an operation to be reckoned on with confidence.
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