"We _are_ different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus. For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're wearing." "I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?" "Well," said Jake, with a critical glance, "they're all wrong. Now you've got good shoulders, your figure's well balanced, and I like the way you hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I'll show you some time when I model you in clay." He paused and grinned. "I guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost. Besides, there is something of the soldier about you." "I wish you'd stop rotting," said Dick with a touch of awkwardness, though he saw that Jake knew nothing about his leaving the army. "Was it your father's notion that you should be an engineer?" "He thinks so," Jake answered, grinning. "My opinion is that you have to thank my sister Ida for the job of looking after me. She made this her business until I went to Yale, when, of course, she lost control. Ida has a weakness for managing people, for their good, but you ought to take it as a delicate compliment that she passed me on to you." "After all, Miss Fuller's age must be nearly the same as mine," Dick remarked. "I see what you mean, but in some respects she's much older. In fact, I guess I could give you a year or two myself. But it seems to me you've kind of wilted since we began to talk. You've gone slack and your eyes look heavy. Say, I'm sorry if I've made you tired." "I don't think you had much to do with it," said Dick. "My head aches and I've a shivery feeling that came on about this time last night. A touch of malarial fever, perhaps; they get it now and then in the town, though we ought to be free from it on the hill. Anyhow, if you don't mind, I'll get off to bed." He went away, and Jake looked about the veranda and the room that opened on to it. There was a canvas chair or two, a folding table, a large drawing board on a trestle frame, and two cheap, tin lamps. It was obvious that Dick thought of nothing much except his work and had a Spartan disregard for comfort. "A good sort, but it's concrete first and last with him," Jake remarked. "Guess I've got to start by making this shack fit for a white man to live in."