What he wanted to be was a literature--a book-agent or a poet, or some such foolishness.

Old Sol, havin' no more use for a poet than he had for a poor relation, was red hot in a minute.

Was this what he'd been droppin' good money in the education collection box for?
Was this--etcetery and so on.

He'd be--what the church folks say he will be--if Fred don't go in for law.
Fred, he comes back that he'll be the same if he does.

So they disowned each other by mutual consent, as the Irishman said, and the boy marches out of the front door, bag and baggage.