Wynne smiled. “I fancy that Socrates was a Greek,” he replied. “I’m not going to quibble about that. He could have been an Esquimaux for all the good he’ll do you in the City.” Wynne had been expecting this for some time, and he replied with a steady voice, “I shan’t take him to the City, father.” “Better not. Better forget all about him and fix your mind on things that matter. How did you do with book-keeping?” “I did nothing. I wish to make books, not to keep them.” “Don’t want any racecourse jargon here, please.” “You misunderstand me. I ought to have said write books.” “There are plenty of books without your writing them.” “What a good thing Shakespeare’s father didn’t think so!” mused Wynne. Mr. Rendall ignored the interruption. “I’m giving you one more term at school, so make the best use of it. You are not by any means a fool, and what your brother Wallace could do you should be able to do.” Wallace was already established in a clerkship whither he daily proceeded in a silk hat. Being drawn into the conversation he felt it incumbent upon himself to offer a contribution. “You will find in the City, Wynne, people are not inclined to put up with a lot of nonsense.” “I think it unlikely I shall find out anything of the kind,” replied Wynne. “I say you will,” retorted his brother. “And I repeat I think it is unlikely.” “Your brother Wallace knows what he’s talking about,” said Mr. Rendall. “That’s it!” exclaimed Wynne, jumping to his feet; “he knows what he is talking about, and that is all he ever can or ever will know.” “Will you sit down at table!” ordered Mr. Rendall. “I never saw such an exhibition.” “It is terrible,” lamented Mrs. Rendall. “You listen to what your elders have to say, and don’t talk so much yourself. Your brother Wallace is making thirty-five shillings a week.” “O most wonderful Wallace!” cried Wynne. “Villon starved in a gaol and wrote exquisite verses, but he could not earn so much as brother Wallace.” “Look here, young Wynne,” exclaimed his brother, “you had better shut up if you don’t want me to punch your head.” “‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’” chanted Wynne irrepressibly. “Father! Can’t you speak to him?” “Speak to him be damned!” said Mr. Rendall, for no particular reason. “He’s got to toe the line, that’s what it amounts to—toe the line.” “And when I’ve toed the line, what then?” demanded Wynne; but none seemed able to supply the answer, and the advice to “shut up about it” could hardly be regarded as illuminating. The argument concluded with the brief comment from his father: “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” VII The matter was not broached again until after breakfast on the following day, when Wynne and his father were left alone over the empty cups and dishes. “Discuss your future!” announced Mr. Rendall. He rose and placed a lump of sugar between the bars of the canary’s cage. The canary chirruped to signify gratitude for the gift.