And there is _one_ Lord Chancellor. Now, it is just possible for _one_ boy out of the 2,000,000 to become Lord Chancellor; but it is quite impossible for _all_ the boys, or even for one boy in 1000, or for one boy in 10,000, to become Lord Chancellor. Our M.P. means that if a boy is clever and industrious he may become Lord Chancellor. But suppose _all_ the boys are as clever and as industrious as he is, they cannot _all_ become chancellors. The one boy can only succeed because he is stronger, cleverer, more pushing, more persistent, or more _lucky_ than any other boy. In my story, _Bob's Fairy_, this very point is raised. I will quote it for you here. Bob, who is a boy, is much troubled about the poor; his father, who is a self-made man and mayor of his native town, tells Bob that the poor are suffering because of their own faults. The parson then tries to make Bob understand-- "Come, come, come," said the reverend gentleman, "you are too young for such questions. Ah--let me try to--ah--explain it to you. Here is your father. He is wealthy. He is honoured. He is mayor of his native town. Now, how did he make his way?" Mr. Toppinroyd smiled, and poured himself out another glass of wine. His wife nodded her head approvingly at the minister. "Your father," continued the minister, "made himself what he is by industry, thrift, and talent." "If another man was as clever, and as industrious and thrifty as father," said Bob, "could he get on as well?" "Of course he could," replied Mr. Toppinroyd. "Then the poor are not like that?" asked Bob. "I regret to say," said the parson, "that--ah--they are not." "But if they were like father, they could do what he has done?" Bob said. "Of course, you silly," exclaimed his mother. Ned chuckled behind his paper. Kate turned to the piano. Bob nodded and smiled. "How droll!" said he. "What's droll?" his father asked sharply. "Why," said Bob, "how funny it would be if all the people were industrious, and clever, and steady!" "Funny?" ejaculated the parson. "Funny?" repeated Mr. Toppinroyd. "What do you mean, dear?" inquired Mrs. Toppinroyd mildly. "If all the men in Loomborough were as clever and as good as father," said Bob simply, "there would be 50,000 rich mill-owners, and they would all be mayor of the same town." Mr. Toppinroyd gave a sharp glance at his son, then leaned forward, boxed his ears, and said-- "Get to bed, you young monkey. Go!" Do you see the idea? The poor cannot _all_ be mayors and chancellors and millionaires, because there are too many of them and not enough high places. But they can all be asses, and they will be asses, if they listen to such rubbish as that uttered by this Tory M.P.