Peter dropped his shading fingers, lifted his body from the depths of the easy chair and leaned forward so that the light fell full on his face. He had all the information he wanted now. “And now let me tell you my story, my lad. It is a very short one. I had the same sort of a home, but no father--none that I remember--and no mother, they both died before my sister Felicia and I were grown up. At twelve I left school; at fifteen I worked in a country store--up at daylight and to bed at midnight, often. From twenty to twenty-five I was entry clerk in a hardware store; then book-keeper; then cashier in a wagon factory; then clerk in a village bank--then book-keeper again in my present bank, and there I have been ever since. My only advantages were a good constitution and the fact that I came of gentle people. Here we are both alike--you at twenty--how old?--twenty two?... Well, make it twenty-two.... You at twenty-two and I at twenty-two seem to have started out in life with the same natural advantages, so far as years and money go, but with this difference--Shall I tell you what it is?” “Yes.” “That I worked and loved it, and love it still, and that you are lazy and love your ease. Don't be offended--” Here Peter laid his hand on the boy's knee. He waited an instant, and not getting any reply, kept on: “What you want to do is to go to work. It wouldn't have been honorable in you to let your father support you after you were old enough to earn your own living, and it isn't honorable in you, with your present opinions, to live on your uncle's bounty, and to be discontented and rebellious at that, for that's about what it all amounts to. You certainly couldn't pay for these comforts outside of this house on what Breen & Co. can afford to pay you. Half of your mental unrest, my lad, is due to the fact that you do not know the joy and comfort to be got out of plain, common, unadulterated work.” “I'll do anything that is not menial.” “What do you mean by 'menial'?” “Well, working like a day-laborer.” “Most men who have succeeded have first worked with their hands.” “Not my uncle.” “No, not your uncle--he's an exception--one among a million, and then again he isn't through.” “But he's worth two million, they say.” “Yes, but he never earned it, and he never worked for it, and he doesn't now. Do you want to follow in his footsteps?” “No--not with all his money.” This came in a decided tone. “But surely you wouldn't want me to work with my hands, would you?” “I certainly should, if necessary.” Jack looked at him, and a shade of disappointment crossed his face. “But I COULDN'T do anything menial.” “There isn't anything menial in any kind of work from cleaning a stable up! The menial things are the evasions of work--tricks by which men are cheated out of their just dues.” “Stock gambling?” “Yes--sometimes, when the truth is withheld.”