As he spoke the air seemed to throb with the passion of his phrases. His face was uplifted to the sky. The Major remembered a picture in the corridor of the Library of Congress--the Boy of Winander---- Oh, the boys of the world--those wonderful boys who had been drawn out from among the rest, set apart for a time, and in whose hands now rested the fate of nations! "It is epic," he said, slowly. "Take your time for it." "It's too big," said Randy slowly, "and I am not a genius---- But it is my idea, all right, and some day, perhaps, I shall make it go." "You must make it clear to yourself. Then you can make it clear to others." "Yes," Randy agreed, "and now you can see why I am sitting up nights." "Yes. How did you happen to think of it, Paine?" "I've been turning a lot of things over in my mind----; what the other fellows are doing about their jobs. There's that boy at the butcher's, and a lot of us went over to do big things. And now we have come back to the little things. Why, there's Dalton's valet--Kemp--taking orders from that--cad." His scorn seemed to cut into the night. "And I am selling cars---- I sold one to-day to an old darkey, and I felt my grandsires turn in their graves. But I like it." The Major sat up. "Your liking it is the biggest thing about you, Paine." "What do you mean?" "A man who can do his day's work and not whine about it, is the man that counts. That butcher's boy may have a soul above weighing meat and wrapping sausages, but at the moment that's his job, and he is doing it well. There may be a divine discontent, but I respect the man who keeps his mouth shut until he finds a remedy or a raise. "I don't often speak of myself," he went on, "but perhaps this is the moment. I am as thirsty for California, Paine, as a man for drink. It is the dry season out there, and the hills are brown, but I love the brown, and the purple shadows in the hollows. I have ridden over those hills for days at a time,--I shall never ride a horse over them again." He stopped and went on. "Oh, I've wanted to whine. I have wanted to curse the fate that tied me to a chair like this. I have been an active man--out-of-doors, and oh, the out-of-doors in California. There isn't anything like it--it is the sense of space, the clear-cut look of things. But I won't go back. Not till I have learned to do my day's work, and then I will let myself play a bit. I'd like to take you with me, Paine--you and a good car--and we'd go over the hills and far away----