‘Don’t say that,’ said John, with moisture in the corners of his eyes. ‘You are not an old man yet. Do something better than that. Work at something. I’ll help you if I can--I’ll----’ He paused, for this was a tremendous thing to say, and such a risk to run as took away the breath of a young man so absorbed in his own pursuits and determined on succeeding. He paused, and the flush of a sudden struggle came all over him, a rush of blood to his brain, a conflict of thoughts which filled his head and his ears with a clamour as of armies meeting, and then he continued, with a vehemence which was not in his ordinary nature, a burst of generous youthful impulse unlike the ordinary wisdom and self-restraint of his sober youth, ‘I’ll be a friend to you instead of Joe!’ The convict--for he was a convict, however he might explain his offences away--gave John a smile which was like sunshine, and lit up all his face. But then he shook his head. ‘I am not going to accept that,’ he said. ‘No, no--I am no friend for you. But it’s true the money will not last for ever--and I ought to do something if I am to go on living. I don’t know what, though. They taught me a trade down yonder, but----’ he broke off with a smile. ‘I don’t know what I am good for otherwise.’ ‘I’ll tell you,’ said John, in his fervour. ‘You shall come and copy these papers for me. I am out all day, and you can do it here. I can show you what I want in half-an-hour. They are plans I have been making out: I’ve done them on all sorts of scraps, and they must be clearly copied. I hope they’ll make my fortune,’ he said, after a moment, with a touch of boyish simplicity, ‘and then perhaps I’ll be able to do something more, something better for you.’ He did not observe in the warmth of his interest that Joe had come in while he was speaking, after a faint knock at the door. Joe entered softly, still with that hungry look in his eyes. He had been more than half-an-hour gone, and he was very anxious to know what those two had been talking about all this time. The words he caught as he came in raised this curiosity to the fever point. ‘They’ll make his fortune,’ he repeated to himself, looking at the table and all the papers with his wolfish, predatory eyes. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Son of His Father; vol. 2/3, by Margaret Oliphant