ve you a start in life. Well,
I've given it to you--a damn good start, too, judging by the length of
that jump. Now you git! Not a word. You just git!'

"Will didn't go very far away. He went to the rival town across the
river. He hadn't learned anything about making paper, but a New England
Leighton is just naturally born knowing how to make paper. In fifteen
years Will didn't have much soul left, but he had enough money to buy
his father out and make him sign an agreement to retire. They were both
as pleased as Punch. To the day of his death the old man would say, 'I
certainly gave you a start in life, Will,' and Will would answer with a
grin, 'Dad, you certainly did.'

"The moral of that yarn is that we Leightons have proved over and over
that we could play the game of success when we thought it was worth
while. Will's generation and mine, generally speaking, thought it was
worth while. But your generation--the best of it--isn't going to think
so. That's why I'm giving you enough money so that you won't have to
think about it all the time."

"I'm grateful, Dad," said Lewis. "It's easier to breathe that way."

Leighton nodded. "Sometimes," He continued, "I feel guilty, as though it
were cowardly not to have lived where I was put. But--have you ever seen
a straw, caught on a snag, try to stop a river? To your sentimentalist
that straw looks heroic; to anybody that knows the difference between
bathos and pathos it simply looks silly. The river of life is bigger
than that of any nation. We can't stop it, but we can swell it by going
with it. Did you ever see a mule drink against the current?"

"No," said Lewis, his eyes lighting with memory of a thing that he knew.

"Did you ever see free cattle face a gale?"

"No," said Lewis again.

"Out of the mouths of the dumb come words of wisdom," said Leighton. "Go
with life, Boy. Don't get stranded on a snag. You'll only look silly.
I'm glad you've traveled around a bit, because the wider the range of
your legs the wider your range of vision, and, let me tell you, you'll
need a mighty broad field of sight to take in America and the Americans.

"Your country and mine is a national paradox. It's the only country
where you can't buy little things for money. For instance, you can't buy
four seats that somebody else has a right to from a railway conductor
for sixty-two and a half cents. There isn't any price at which you can
get an American to say, 'Yes, sir, thank you, sir,