ought to have a chance of working on the job he
likes best. It's only fair. It's jolly rough on a fellow to have to do
just what comes along whether he's fit for it or not."

"Seems to me," said Sam meditatively, "a good many jobs would want
doing if everyone did what they liked."

"Oh, science would step in and equalise that," returned Christopher,
hastily quoting from some handbook and went on to further expound his
creed.

Sam concluded he had been listening to spouters in the Park, but he
was sharp enough to recognise beneath the crude boyish creed the
kindly generous nature that prompted it.

"So Caesar says you've just to choose. We'll see you through."

"He must be jolly rich."

"Well, that's why he's rich, isn't it, to be able to do things."

"I don't see what he gets out of it anyhow."

"He doesn't want anything, you silly."

"I want to think this out," said Sam, "there is something I've always
wanted since I was a kiddy, but I want to think. Row on."

This was intelligible and encouraging. Christopher's sense of flatness
gave way a little. He pulled steadily, trying to make out what had so
dashed him in Sam's reception of the great news. He had not yet learnt
how exceptional is the mind that can accept a favour graciously.

After nearly ten minutes' silence Sam spoke again. "Well, then, I'd
like to be a grocer," and straightway pulled furiously.

"What?" gasped Christopher, feeling the bottom story of his card house
tottering to a fall.

"It's like this. I don't mind telling you--much--though I've never
told nobody before. When I was a bit of a chap, mother, she used to
take me out shopping in the evenings. We went to pokey little shops,
but we used to pass a fine, big shop--four glass windows--it has six
now--and great lights and mahogany counters and little rails, and
balls for change, tiled floor, no sawdust. Every time I saw it I says
to myself, 'When I'm a man I'll have a place like that.' I tried to
get a job there, but I couldn't--they made too many family inquiries,
you see," he added bitterly; "well, if I could get 'prenticed to a
place like that ... might be head man some day...." He began
whistling with forced indifference, queerly conscious that the whole
of his life seemed packed in that little boat--waiting. The boat had
drifted into a side eddy. Christopher sat with his head on his hands,
wondering with his surface consciousness if the planks at his feet
were three or four inches