“I’m contemplating a fishing trip, first of all, and after that—quien sabe? Some pleasure suitable to my retired condition will undoubtedly suggest itself. I may take up the study of philosophy. Confucius has always interested me. They say it takes forty years to read him and then forty years to digest what you have read. The occupation would, no doubt, prove adequate. But don’t concern yourself about that, dear boy. I’ll get on. You owe me a large debt of gratitude. I’m thrusting a great responsibility on you. It should be the making of you.” Bob had his secret doubts. “Get out and hustle, dear boy. It’s up to you, now!” And he spread out his hands in care-free fashion and smiled blandly. No Buddha could have appeared more complacent—only instead of a lotus flower, Bob’s dad held in his hand a long black weed, the puffing of which seemed to afford a large measure of ecstatic satisfaction. “Go!” He waved the free hand. “My blessing on your efforts.” Bob started to go, and then he lingered. “Perhaps,” he said, “you can tell me _what_ I am going to do?” “Don’t know.” Cheerfully. “What _can_ I do?” Hopelessly. “Couldn’t say.” “I don’t know _anything_.” “Ha! ha!” Dad laughed, as if son had sprung a joke. “Well, that is a condition experience will remove. Experience _and_ hard knocks,” he added. Bob swore softly. His head was humming. No heroic purpose to get out and fight his way moved him. He didn’t care about shoveling earth, or chopping down trees. He had no frenzied desire to brave the sixty-below-zero temperature of the Klondike in a mad search for gold. In a word, he didn’t feel at all like the heroes in the books who conquer under almost impossible conditions in the vastnesses of the “open,” and incidentally whallop a few herculean simple-minded sons of nature, just to prove that breed is better than brawn. “Of course, I could give you a little advice, Bob,” said the governor softly. “If you should find hustling a bit arduous for one of your luxurious nature, there’s an alternative. It is always open to a young man upon whom nature has showered her favors.” “Don’t know what you mean by that last,” growled Bob, who disliked personalities. “But what is the alternative to hustling?” “Get married,” said dad coolly. Bob changed color. Dad watched him keenly. “There’s always the matrimonial market for young men who have not learned to specialize. I’ve known many such marriages to turn out happily, too. Marrying right, my boy, is a practical, not a sentimental business.” Bob looked disgusted. “There’s Miss Gwendoline Gerald, for example. Millions in her own name, and—” “Hold on, dad!” cried Bob. His face was flaming now. The blue eyes gleamed almost fiercely. “I knew you were acquainted,” observed dad softly, still studying him. “Besides she’s a beautiful girl and—”