"No, I am joking. I think you take things seriously, Mr. Farwell."

"I suppose so," he admitted. "Yes, I guess I do. I can't help it. I'm
no joker; no time for that. Jokers don't get anywhere. Never saw one
that did. It's the fellow who keeps thinking about his job and banging
away at it who gets there."

"The inference being that I won't get anywhere."

Farwell, puzzled momentarily, endeavoured to remember what he had said.

"I guess I made another break. I wasn't thinking of you. Women don't
have to get anywhere. Men do--that is, men who count. I've seen a lot
of fellows in my own profession--smart, clever chaps--but, instead of
buckling down to work, they were eternally running about having a good
time. And what did any of them ever amount to? Not that!" He snapped
his fingers contemptuously.

"But wasn't that the fault of the men themselves? I mean that, apart
from their liking for a good time, perhaps they hadn't the other
qualities to make them successful."

"Yes, they had," said Farwell positively. "Didn't I say they were
clever? It wasn't lack of that--it was their confounded fooling around.
Almost every man gets one chance to make good. If he's ready for it
when it comes, he's made. If he isn't--well, he isn't. That was the way
with these fellows. When they should have been digging into the
ground-work of their profession they weren't. And so, when good things
were given them, they fell down hard. They lost money for other people,
and that doesn't do. Now they're down and out--lucky to get a job with
a level and one rodman to boss. There's no sympathy coming to them. It
was their own fault."

He spoke positively, with finality, beating the heel of his clenched
fist against his knee to emphasize his words. Evidently he spoke out of
the faith that was in him. Not a line of his face suggested humour or
whimsicality. Not a twinkle of the eye relieved its hardness. He was
grave, dour, purposeful, matter-of-fact. He took himself, his life, and
the things of life with exceeding seriousness.

Sheila regarded him thoughtfully. Somehow she was reminded of her
father. There was the same gravity, marching hand in hand with tenacity
of purpose, fixity of ideas; the same grim scorn of the tonic wine of
jest and laughter. But in the elder man these were mellowed and
softened. In Farwell, in the strength of his prime, they were in full
tide, accentuated.

"Every man should have a good chance, and be ready for it," s