"You’ve got everything you can desire that money will buy," answered his father sternly. "Only last month I gave you that thoroughbred pony which you had set your heart on, and which cost me a pretty penny, I assure you, though you’re welcome to another if you wish, for all it matters to me. You’ve got the best games and books that can be bought, enough to stock a shop, and yet it appears you are not satisfied. There are motors in the garage, and boats on the lake, with servants at hand to do your every bidding, why should you go hankering after loafers you know nothing about, and who have the impudence to hang about my property against my express desire." "It’s no fun playing games by myself," grumbled Julius. "Now that old Finney has gone, I’ve not even got him to help me. I want a boy the same age as me, that I can lick if he gets cheeky, and who won’t call me names, like the gardener’s sons." "Call you names, like the gardener’s sons," repeated Mr. Field incredulously. "I never heard of such a thing. Benson shall have a piece of my mind about this before the day is out, and if he can’t teach his cubs to behave themselves, he must look out for another situation, that’s all. If things go on at the Good Hope mine as they have done in the past, the world will hear about you, Julius, and at no very distant time either. Folk must climb down when they speak to you, and treat you with fitting respect. You’ve had advantages that I never enjoyed, and some fine day, if I mistake not, you’ll find yourself at the top of the tree; so in the meantime, my lad, don’t price yourself too cheap, but just stand up with the best of them. There’s a new tutor coming next term in place of Finney--a younger man who has carried off every prize he could win and charges accordingly, so you’d better get as much as you can out of him when he arrives, and leave this shabby young rascal and the gardener’s boys to fight it out together upon the beach." With a satisfied air, as if the last word had now been said, Mr. Field rose from his chair and sauntered out to charge Benson with the enormity of his offence, a congenial task which lost nothing in the doing. Meanwhile Julius, left to himself in the breakfast-room, proceeded to feed Pat, his Irish terrier, with chicken rissoles, until that amusement palled, and he whistled to the dog to follow him out of doors.