“You are very hard on me, Mr. Sartwell. You know that if I came from the gutter, what education I have, I gave to myself. I have studied hard, and worked hard. Does that count for nothing? I have a good character, and I have a good situation----” “You have not. I discharge you. You will call at the office to-morrow, get your week’s money, and go.” “Oh!” “Yes, ‘oh!’ You did not think that of me, did you?” “I did not.” “Well, for once you are right. I merely wish to show you how your good situation depends on the caprice of one man. I have no intention of discharging you. I am not so much afraid of you as that. I’ll look after my daughter.” Marsten said bitterly: “Gibbons, ass as he is, is right when he says that no one is so hard on a workman as one who has risen from the ranks. You were no better off than I am, when you were my age.” Sartwell sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger. “Pay attention, young man,” he cried. “All the things you have done, I have done. All the things you intend to do, I have already done. I have, in a measure, educated myself, and I have worked hard night and day. I have attained a certain position, a certain responsibility, and a certain amount of money. I have had little pleasure and much toil in my life, and I am now growing old. Yet as I look back I see that there was as much luck as merit in what success I have had. I was ready when the chance came, that was all; if the chance hadn’t come, all my readiness would have done me little good. For one man who succeeds, a dozen, equally deserving, fail. “Now, why have I gone through all this? Why? For myself? Not likely. I have done it so that she may not have to be that tired drudge--a workman’s wife--so that she may begin where I leave off. That’s why. For myself, I would as soon wear a workman’s jacket as a manager’s coat. And now, having gone through all this for her sake--you talk of love! What is your love for her compared to mine? When I have done all this that she might never know what it means, shall I be fool enough, knave enough, idiot enough, to thrust her back where I began, at the beck of the first mouthing ranter who has the impudence to ask for her? No, by God, no! Now you have had your answer, get out, and don’t dare to set foot in this office until you are sent for.” Sartwell in his excitement smote the desk with his clenched fist to emphasize his sentences. Marsten shrank before his vehemence, realizing that no workman had ever seen the manager angry before, and he dreaded the resentment that would rise in Sartwell’s heart when the coldness returned. He felt that he would have been more diplomatic to have left sooner. Nevertheless, seeing that things could be no worse, he stood his ground. “I thought,” he said, “that it would be honourable in me to let you know----” “Don’t talk to me of honour. Get out.”