“Yes, and when I die that’s what’s goin’ onto the headstone. It means somethin’. There hain’t no need for a verse of poetry and clasped hands. ‘Clothespin Jimmy’ tells the whole story. I don’t mind sayin’ I’m proud of it. Just like I was proud of the first dollar I ever handled—because I earned it. Folks call me Clothespin Jimmy because I’ve done things with clothespins—things that amount to somethin’. Men don’t git names like that by settin’ in one spot till their pants wear thin. Now, take you—they call you Jim, and there the matter ends. That’s where you end. You’re just Jim, like seven hundred thousand other Jims. You don’t stick up above the herd. Hain’t it about time folks was findin’ reason to hitch a descriptive name onto you?” “I’m twenty-eight. I’ve got a good job. I’m supporting myself and not taking a cent from you—” “I’m not findin’ fault with what you’ve done, son. You ain’t a gilded butterfly—that ain’t what I mean. You’re respectable and self-supportin’, but so’s twenty million other boys in this country. You’re just a good average human critter. But that’s not even comin’ close to the subject, which is that ma and me would like to go to Californy.” “Good idea, dad. When do you start?” “As things is we don’t start at all.” “Why?” “Largely because you’re satisfied to have folks call you Jim without any description to it.” The old gentleman took a package of folded papers from a drawer and slid the rubber band off them. “Here’s somethin’,” he said. “Bonds. Fifty of ’em for a thousand dollars apiece. Net five per cent. I’ve milked the business to get ’em. ’Twasn’t right by the business, but I done it just the same. Now, then, you never liked the clothespin business. Don’t know why. So I’ve fixed it so you could pick and choose between two things. I’ll come to that in a minute. But first, about Californy. I started supportin’ myself when I was fifteen, and I’ve been hard at it ever since—fifty years. The time’s come for me to git out with your ma and have a good time if we’re ever a-goin’ to. Short time for frolickin’ left at best. But it rests with you. I figger I’ve earned the right to loaf, but I can’t loaf without leavin’ somebody to labor. There hain’t nobody but you.” He stopped and looked at Jim and slapped the package of bonds on the desk-top three or four times. “There ought to be somethin’ to you more ’n just Jim. I’ve waited to see it crop out. Now I’m goin’ to dig for it. Here’s these bonds. Yonder in Diversity is the new mill almost ready to start turnin’ over. It’ll be worth a quarter of a million to somebody. I can make it so in a year. What I got you in here for was to offer you your choice. You can take the mill and the business and have it till God does you part—and buckle in like I’ve done; or you can take this fifty thousand in bonds and go play. If you take the mill, your ma and me take the bonds and go play. There’s the proposition. Take which you like—and no hard feelin’s.”