"I know of one working boy who would appreciate it. I suppose _you_ don't call yourself a working boy." "I am a gentleman's son," said Brandon, haughtily. "And gentlemen's sons don't work, I presume." "They don't work for a living." "There are different ways of working; working with the brains, for instance." "Of course I do that." "And I, too." "I don't approve of a superior education for the lower classes," remarked Brandon. "Whom do you mean by the lower classes?" asked Dean, his face flushing. "Oh, working boys and working men, and so on." "Some of our most successful men used to be working boys." "A few," Brandon admitted reluctantly. "I mean to become one of those few." Brandon laughed sarcastically. "You'd better be contented with your station in life," he said. "Thank you for the advice, but I shan't follow it." "It won't make much difference, I fancy." This conversation took place three months before, soon after Brandon's boat-house was completed. When on this June day Brandon loosened his rope, and prepared for a row, he was alone. But just as he was pushing off he caught sight of a small boy, ten years old, the son of a poor Irish widow in the village, who regarded him and his boat wistfully. "Give me a ride, Brandon?" he asked. Ordinarily Brandon would have answered in the negative, and indeed he was on the point of doing so, when a sudden idea entered his mind. "Well, jump in, you little brat!" he said. Tommy Boyle was only too glad to do so, and he did not trouble himself to resent the rough form of invitation. "Thank you, Brandon," he said. "Look here, youngster, don't call me Brandon." "Why, isn't that your name?" asked Tommy, in wonder. "It is not respectful. You must call me Mr. Bates." "But Mr. Bates is your father," objected Tommy. "That is my name, too. My father is Squire Bates." Tommy did not pay much attention to this explanation, for he was paddling his hands in the water. "Lemme row," said Tommy, suddenly. "Let you row? You can't row." "Yes I can. Dean lets me row." "It doesn't make much difference about his old tub," said Brandon, scornfully; "you can't row in this boat." "Why not, Brandon?" "Didn't I tell you not to call me Brandon?" "Mr. Bates, then." "Perhaps I'll let you row when we come back. Did you ever go to the island?" "Yes, Dean took me there one day." "We are going there now." "Are we? Cricky, ain't that fun!" Brandon smiled unpleasantly, showing his teeth after his father's fashion. "He'll be singing a different tune before long," he said to himself. "When I'm a big boy I'm going to have a boat, too," said Tommy. "Perhaps Dean will sell you his, then," suggested Brandon, amused. "He says he'll give it to me." "It'll be a splendid craft, then. Is he going to do without one?" "He says he'll have a boat some time that'll beat yours, Brandon—I mean Mr. Bates."