But the lad had more in him than that. He had ambition, vague as yet, dogged tenacity of purpose, imagination, feeling, fire. There was the stuff; of a man of no common kind in the young workman. Josiah Cornthwaite looked at him long and critically before answering his son’s remark. “Yes,” said he at last slowly, “I daresay he’s fit for something better--indeed, I’m sure of it. But it doesn’t do to bring these young fellows on too fast. If he gets too much encouragement he will turn into an inventor (you know the sort of chap that’s the common pest of a manufacturing town, always worrying about some precious ‘invention’ that turns out to have been invented long ago, or to be utterly worthless), and never do a stroke of honest work again.” “Now, I don’t think Elshaw’s that sort of chap,” said Chris, who looked upon Bram as in some sort his protégé, whose merit would be reflected on himself. “Anyhow, I think it would be worth your while to give him a trial, sir.” “But he would never go back to this work afterwards if he proved a failure in the office.” “Not here, certainly.” “And we should lose a very good workman,” persisted Mr. Cornthwaite, who had conservative notions upon the subject of promotion from the ranks. “Well, I believe it would turn out all right,” said Chris. His father was about to reply when his attention was diverted by the sudden appearance, at the extreme end of the long avenue of sheds and workshops, of two persons who, to judge by the frown which instantly clouded his face, were very unwelcome. “That old rascal again! That old rascal Theodore Biron! Come to borrow again, of course! But I won’t see him. I won’t----” “But, Claire, don’t be too hard on the old sinner, for the girl’s sake, sir,” said Chris hastily, cutting short his protests. Mr. Cornthwaite turned sharply upon his son. “Yes, the old fox is artful enough for that. He uses his daughter to get himself received where he himself wouldn’t be tolerated for two minutes. And I’ve no doubt the little minx is up to every move on the board too.” “Oh, come, sir, you’re too hard,” protested Chris with real warmth, and with more earnestness than he had shown on the subject either of his own career or of Bram’s. “I’d stake my head for what it’s worth, and I suppose you’d say that isn’t much, on the girl’s being all right.” But this championship did not please his father at all. Josiah Cornthwaite’s bushy white eyebrows met over his black eyes, and his handsome, ruddy-complexioned face lost its color. Chris was astonished, and regretted his own warmth, as his father answered in the tones he could remember dreading when he was a small boy-- “Whether she’s all right or all wrong, I warn you not to trouble your head about her. You may rely upon my doing the best I can for her, on account of my relationship to her mother. But I would never countenance an alliance between the family of that old reprobate and mine.”