Whimple early discovered that William was not a model of integrity, diligence, and rectitude. Though an office boy he had his failings, and William's explanations of them were as curious, but quite as characteristic, as the lad himself. "When it comes to business matters, Mister Whimple," he said with a dignity that almost upset the young lawyer's effort to appear gravely judicial, "it's me on the level. You can trust me to tell the truth and do the right thing. But when it comes to spinnin' yarns, nobody don't have to b'lieve 'em. Honest, I don't know when I'm telling the truth about 'em myself." "That is a curious psychological problem, William." "Gee! is it as bad as that? I hope it ain't fatal." Whimple smiled. "No," he said, slowly, "and yet, my boy, there is only one way to build up a good reputation. Do you go to Sunday school?" "Well--not reg'lar. Sunday's the busy time for me." "Busy! Why?" "Sure--I take the kiddies out if it's fine, and maybe we don't have the bully times. Say"--his eyes were shining now, and he stood a little closer to Whimple, who was sitting on the table--"there's Pete, he's nine and a holy terror, and Bessie, she's six, and Joey, he's about four, And Dolly--say, Mister Whimple, you'd orter see Dolly, she's got big brown eyes, and brown hair, and a kinder solemn little face. She----" "Are you spinning yarns now, William?" "It's between man and man now, Mister Whimple--this ain't no yarn. My Pa says he uster think no man could keep a buncher kids like us and be happy, and now he thinks no man could be happy without a bunch like us, and Ma says it's hard scrapin' sometimes, but she wouldn't be without one of us for a thousand feeter land on the main street, and that's going some." "What does your father do, William?" "Pa, he's an express-man, and a good one at that, Mister Whimple. He owns two horses and rigs, and I tell you he keeps agoing all day long, Saturdays too, an' he's a-buyin' the house we're in, an' it ain't no cinch of a job liftin' a mortgage. Many's the time I've heard him say he wished he could lift it as easy as he lifts some of the trunks he carts." "And what are you going to be, William?" And William was silent. He flushed a little, toyed with a button of his vest, and finally answered in a low tone-- "I know what I wanter be, and sometimes I think I know how to get there, and sometimes I don't, and I'd rather not tell it just now." "I hope you'll succeed, William--if your aim is a lofty one." "Well," drawled William, "it's some high, and Tommy Watson says I'm bughouse, but I tell him he's a bit that way himself." "Tommy Watson, the auctioneer?" "Sure--say, Mister Whimple, ain't he a pippin? My Pa says he can make people buy rocks and weep with joy on the bargains they're gettin' in diamon's."