“I’ve never thought about it, Mr. York.” “Ever build anything?” “I built a hen-house once,” replied Sam, with a smile. “I like to do that sort of thing, but----” “Where’d you get your plan?” “Nowhere; I mean I just--just went ahead and put it together.” “But you planned it in your head first, didn’t you?” “I suppose I did,” Sam confessed. “You see, there was the framework.” “Did you do it all yourself? How big was it?” “About twelve by eight. I did it all myself, usually after school or in the morning. It--it wasn’t much.” “Ever do any drawing?” “I’ve tried to.” “Like good pictures, handsome buildings, statuary--such things?” “Yes, sir, very much.” “Still you don’t think you’d care to create them, eh?” “Indeed I would, Mr. York, but I don’t believe I ever could. I’d like to build a real house some time, though. You wouldn’t have to know so much to do that, would you?” Mr. York laughed and Mr. Hall smiled sympathetically. “Why, yes, Sam, in order to build a house you’ve got to know quite a bit. Look here, why don’t you think it over and decide whether you’d like to be an architect? If you would, you can start your college course with that end in view; and in the summers there’s a place in our office you can have. The wages wouldn’t be large, but you’d learn the business and if you made good I guess we’d be glad to give you a real job. You’d have to work hard, though, and study like the dickens. What do you think about it?” “I’d like it!” declared Sam decidedly. “If I really could learn enough to--to be an architect----” “Pshaw,” interrupted Mr. Hall, “it’s no trick, Craig. All the fellows in my class at college who couldn’t make a living at laying brick or driving express wagons went in for architecture. All, that is, except John York. He had so much money he didn’t have to make it, and we persuaded him to be an architect because we thought he could do as little harm in that profession as any.” Sam smiled obligingly and Mr. York threatened his friend with a paper-weight. “You give it a good thinking over, Sam,” he continued. “Talk to your folks about it. You don’t have to decide before you get to college. And as to college, why, you’ll just have to make it somehow, old man. We’ll keep our eyes open and see if we can’t find a scheme. John and I will get our heads together”--Mr. York was interrupted by a fit of coughing--“and work out something. Look here, John, this place is worse than Pittsburg! Why, the room is full of smoke. Close the windows if you don’t want me to choke to death!” Mr. Hall started to comply with the request, then apparently changed his mind, and walked to the door that led to the corridor. “It certainly is smoky,” he muttered, “and it can’t all come from the railroad.” He opened the door and staggered back before the cloud of dense and acrid smoke that billowed in. The others leaped to their feet with exclamations of alarm. Mr. Hall slammed the door shut again and faced them.