"Your men aren't there. You'll have to bring it yourself." Tony shook his head. "I'm ve chief," he repeated, and looked his father in the eye. Anthony understood. It was not the first time. There were moments in one's experience with Anthony Robeson, Junior, when one seemed to encounter a deadlock in the child's will. Reasoning and commands were apt at such times to be alike futile. The odd thing about it was that it was impossible to predict when these moments were at hand. They arose without warning, when the boy was apparently in the best of tempers, and they did not seem to be the result of any previous mismanagement on the part of those in authority over him. Of one point Anthony, Senior, was sure. The child, like all children, and possibly more than most, possessed a vivid imagination. When he announced himself to be a fire chief, there could be no question that he believed himself to be for the time that which he pretended to be. His father understood, therefore, that to make progress with the boy it was necessary to get back to the standpoint of reality before commands could be expected to take hold. So he sat down on a rustic seat near Juliet's roses and spoke in a pleasantly matter-of-fact way. "Yes, you've been a fire chief, son, and a good one. That was a great game. But the game is over now, and you're not a fire chief any more. You're Tony Robeson, and the little hook-and-ladder cart is your plaything. Father wants you to bring it here and put it in its place in the house. It looks a little bit like rain, and the cart mustn't be left out to get wet. See?" But Tony still shook his head. "My men'll put it in," he said, with calmness undisturbed. "You haven't any men. You played there were some, but the play is over and there aren't any men. If you don't put the cart in it may get wet." "I'm ve chief," said little Tony. "Chiefs don't draw carts." "When they've turned back to little boys they do. You've turned back to a little boy." "No, I hasn't," said Tony, and his eyes met his father's unflinchingly. "I's going to be a chief all ve time." The argument seemed unanswerable. Anthony considered swiftly what to do. He studied the grave brown eyes an instant in silence, their beauty and the inflexibility in their depths appealing to him with equal force. He loved the tough little will. He recognised it as his own--the same powerful quality which had brought him thus far on the road to fortune after being landed at the furthermost end from the goal. He would not for worlds deal with his son's will in any but the way which should seem to him wisest.