"And in rather humble circumstances, perhaps?" This time David glanced at him keenly, queerly, for an instant--opened his lips and shut them again and ended with a mere jerk of a nod. "How about schooling, David? You've been through high school?" "Er--yes." "And have you a profession?" Anthony pursued. "No, I haven't any profession?" the boy muttered. "But you're working, of course?" Mr. Fry asked sharply. "What? Oh, yes," said David. "At some mechanical line?" "Oh, yes," David said. "In just what line, then?" And now, had Anthony but been watching, some of Johnson Boller's suspicions must have seemed justified. There was no question about the way David's very intelligent eyes were acting now; they darted furtively, wildly almost, from side to side, as if the boy were seeking escape. They darted toward Anthony and away from him and back to David's shabby suit and worn shoes. "I'm a--plumber's helper!" the boy said gustily. "Wait a second, kid!" Mr. Boller put in. "Let me see those hands!" "Well, they--they haven't had time to get roughened up yet!" David said quickly. "I just went to work yesterday." "The boy's lying, Anthony!" Mr. Boller said bluntly. "I don't lie, Mr.----" "Boller," Anthony supplied. "And please don't badger the boy, Johnson." "I'm not badgering him," said Johnson Boller; "only that kid's hands look more like a society queen's than an honest workingman's." "They may be hands designed for better things. David! Tell me, are you quite satisfied to be a plumber's helper, or was it the only thing you could find in the way of employment?" "It was all I could find," David muttered, glancing at the door. And then, with his quick smile, he rose again. "I'd like to sit here and answer questions, Mr. Fry, but I'll have to run along and----" Anthony beamed at him over his glasses, fidgeting there with the impatience of youth, standing on one foot and then on the other. Anthony turned and beamed at the bookcase beside him, and selecting a volume, beamed at that, too. "David," said he, "will you be seated long enough to hear a little poem?" "What?" "It is a very short poem, and one of my favorites," Anthony mused, and his stare at David grew quite hypnotic. "Ah, here it is--a little, wonderfully big poem by the late Senator John Ingalls. It is called--'Opportunity.'" "Aha!" David said rather stupidly. "And now, listen," said Anthony, clearing his throat. "Master of human destinies am I!" He paused and sent the hypnotic smile drilling into David. "'_Master of human destinies!_'" he repeated. "That, in itself, means a very great deal, does it not?" "I guess so," David muttered dazedly, and, however briefly, Johnson Boller almost liked him for the look he directed at Anthony's bowed head.