After supper, when her husband and self were alone, she startled the good easy man by relating what had taken place. Tom’s father was the principal doctor of the neighbourhood, which was so salubrious and so poor that he must have left it long before, had he not possessed a little independency, which kept the household afloat. He was of an indolent turn, getting gray and fat, like his old cob. Want of work, magnificent health, and a managing wife, who took all the worries of life off his shoulders, made him oblivious of the young world growing round his hearth. He could not imagine that his boy and girls were weaving anticipatory tissues of _their_ lives, that these young birds were getting fledged for flights far away from the home-nest. So, the announcement of Tom’s rebellion against school, and his thoughts of evasion, came on the doctor as the greatest event he had known for years. ‘Now you mention it, Maria,’ said he, when he began to quieten down a bit—‘now you mention it, Tom is really growing a big fellow. He’ll be six feet high, if he’s an inch, by his twentieth year. And what a square stiff back he’s got! He takes after my mother’s family; they were all strapping fellows. Yes, Tom’s too big for school. He’s like a salmon among minnows, among the grammar-school boys. Dear, dear, how lads do grow!’ ‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Tom’s mother, a little tartly—she had a temper of her own, as all managing women have—‘Tom is big, and will be bigger; that goes without the saying. But what is to be done for the poor boy? What career do you propose for him?’ ‘Upon my life, I haven’t the ghost of an idea, Maria. Now you have brought this matter on the carpet, it recalls a good deal I have heard of late. When I was at Bimpson’s the other day, attending his wife of her seventh boy, Bimpson said to me, over a glass of wine: “Doctor, he _is_ a fine child, I admit; but how he’ll get bread and cheese, if he lives, I can’t guess at all.” And the poor fellow broke out into quite a jeremiad over the redundancy of boys just now. He has three lads waiting for careers, and the deuce an opening can he find! Then there is Clumpit the wheelwright—you know Clumpit, Maria? Well, I’ve been attending him for hypochondria. He can find nothing suitable for his eldest son; and it preys on his mind, because the mother won’t let him go away from home to try his luck in some of the big towns. And old Burrows met me the other day, and quite pitifully asked me if I could advise him what to do with his grandson. I was really sorry for the poor old man. Of course, I could not help him.’ Tom’s mother looked more anxious as the doctor went on ramblingly; and at last she said: ‘All this leads to nothing. Tom must have a career arranged for him by us, or he will take the matter in his own hands. I can read his mind; I know him better than you, my dear. What must we do with him?’