It was a day of expectancy—and promise—of blackthorn breaking into snowy showers, and of meadows richly green, blue sky and white cloud—and a sense of racing, headlong life joyously tremulous over the earth.

The boys had met at Paddington Station, Sam Sartin by no means abashed at his own appearance in an old suit of Christopher’s, and wearing, in deference to his friend’s outspoken wishes, a decorous dark-blue tie and unobtrusive shirt. He looked what he was—a good, solid, respectable working lad out for a holiday. Excitement, if he felt it, was well suppressed, surprise at the new world of luxury—they travelled down first—was equally carefully concealed. The code of manners in which he was reared was stringent in this particular.

Christopher, on the contrary, was in high spirits. Sam had watched him come down the platform, out of the corner of his eye, with a queer sense of proud possession. He would have liked to proclaim to the world that the young master there, who walked like a prince, was his own particular pal. Yet he pretended not to see him till Christopher clapped him on the shoulder with a warm greeting.

“I’ve got the tickets. Come on,” said the giver of the treat. “I say, what a day, Sammie—if it’s good in London what will it be in the country?”

“Cold, I shouldn’t wonder. What’s the matter with London?” said the cockney sarcastically.

“Old Bricks and Mortar,” retorted Christopher gaily. “You’ll know what’s the matter with it when you come back. It’s too jolly small.” 145

“Big enough for me. But the country’s well enough to play in. I say, Mr. Christopher, I’ve been thinking, we may not find any boats. It’s early.”

“Oh, I’ve seen to that,” said Christopher with the faintest suspicion of lordliness in his voice. “I wrote to the man I know at Maidenhead to have a boat ready—a good one.”

Sam grinned. “My, what a head-piece we’ve got, to be sure.”

The other flushed a little. “It was really CÆsar who suggested it,” he owned.

Sam had never been down that line before, so Christopher pointed out the matters of interest. They found their boat ready at Maidenhead, bestowed their coats in the bow and settled themselves. Christopher insisted on Sam’s rowing stroke. Sam thought politeness obliged him to refuse, but he ultimately gave in. He retrieved the little error in manners by handling his oar in a masterly way. “Stroke shaping well,” Christopher heard the boatman say as they went off.

The wind on the river was cold enough and, in spite of the bright sun, cut through them. But half an hour’s steady pulling brought them into a glow and mood to enjoy themselves. Christopher called for a rest. Sam looked over his shoulder.

“Tired?”

“No,” responded the other, laughing, “but we didn’t come down just to row ‘eyes in boat’; I want to look at the world.”

“Nothing but green fields and trees and cows.”

“I like cows.”

“I don’t.”

Nevertheless he desisted from work, and they drifted on. Christopher was bubbling over with a great secret that was to be the crowning episode of the day. It would be fatal to divulge it too early, so 146 he plunged into friendly discussions and they rowed on happy in the physical exertion, the clean, fresh air and the smiling earth.

It was not till after lunch that Christopher decided the great matter must be broached, to allow time to discuss it in full detail. They had changed places and he was stroke now. He pulled with a slower swing but greater power than Sam and for some time bent to his work in silence, thinking over what he was going to say. He took a rapid mental survey of Sam’s present life and future, of what it held and more especially of what it did not hold; the limitations, the lack of opportunity, the struggle for existence that left no room for ambitions or hopes. And he, with CÆsar’s help, was going to change all that, and open the gates of the world wide for him. If the thought were exhilarating, it had also a serious side. He was not afraid, he was too young for that, but he had sense enough to know it was a big thing to uproot a life and plant it in a new spot more congenial to growth.

Mr. Aston’s words to him that morning came back with puzzling insistence. “Remember,” he had said in his kindly way, “no two people see life through the same glasses. Don’t be surprised if Sam’s make you squint.” What did he mean? It was just because he, Christopher, was not sure of Sam’s real ambition that he was to be given the choice. He amused himself while cogitating over it, tasting like an epicure the flavour of the good wine to be drunk presently. Sam complained he was a bad stroke, and they changed again. This better suited his plans. He could see the town boy’s thin sloping shoulders bend evenly before him. Sam was no athlete in build, but his passion for rowing had stood him in good stead and developed muscle and endurance.

“He’ll choose something in boats,” thought Christopher, mentally picturing Sam as captain of a great 147 liner and then as an alternative, as an admiral of the Fleet, and so came the crucial point.

“Sam, if you had your choice, what would you be?”

“Dunno.”

“But think. I want to know. A greengrocer like Mr. Gruner? Ho, ho!” he shouted out wholesome laughter.

Sam grinned. He was less ready to laugh. Life had taken toll of that birthright already.

“I hate vegetables. Beastly, dirty things,” he said prosaically. “No, I wouldn’t be a green-grocer.”

“Well what? An engineer? A doctor, lawyer, parson?”

“Why not a king now?” scoffed Sam.

“Not enough situations vacant. I mean it, really. What would you be if you were as free to choose as I am?”

“If I were you, you mean.”

“No, not that. If you could choose for yourself as I have.”

Sam rowed on stolidly. “Dunno that it’s much use bothering,” he said indifferently. “I’m doing all right, though it’s not what I’d choose.”

It had seemed an easy, insignificant task to break the news five minutes ago, but either Christopher had taken the wrong approach or it was a stiffer job than he had fancied. He became uneasily conscious his own part in it could not be overlooked, that he was doing something that evilly-disposed persons might even call magnanimous or philanthropic. His face grew red at the thought.

“Sam,” he said as naturally as he could, “it happens you can choose, you see. Choose anything you like. CÆsar’s given me a free hand. We are both to start life just as we like. What shall it be? I’ve told you my choice.” 148

The narrow form in front never slackened its stroke, but pulled on mechanically, and at last spoke a little gruffly.

“Say. You’re kidding me, you know.”

“I’m not. Dead earnest.”

Again the boat shot on, but Christopher stopped rowing. Sam looked back over his shoulder.

“You’re lazy. Why don’t you pull?”

Christopher obeyed mechanically. He knew he could afford to be patient now.

“Easy,” said the stroke at last.

There was a smooth reach of water before them. Low meadows with reddish muddy banks lay on either side, no house or any living soul was in sight. Sam rubbed his hands on his trousers, looked back at his friend and away again.

“You mean you’ll start me in any trade I like? ’Prentice me?”

“Any trade or profession.”

“What do you do it for, anyhow?”

“CÆsar suggested it. He said I might if I liked.”

“Well, why do you do it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want to know certain.”

Christopher looked embarrassed. “Weren’t we kids together? Besides, it seems to me every chap 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 149 the Park, but he was sharp enough to recognise beneath the crude boyish creed the kindly generous nature that prompted it.

“So CÆsar 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 150 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 wide, but at last he brushed aside the last card of his demolished palace and recalled his promise to CÆsar to leave Sam as free and unbiased in choice as he had been himself.

“That would be quite easy to manage,” he said with assumed heartiness, “it’s—only too easy. Only you must be a partner or something. Oh, oh. A white apron. I’ll buy my tea and bacon of you when I’ve a house of my own!”

“All right,” grinned Sam. “I’ll have great rows of red and gold canisters and—and brass fittings everywhere—not your plated stuff for me—solid brass and marble-topped counters. But it won’t come off,” he added dejectedly, “things like that never do.”

“But it will,” persisted Christopher impatiently, “just as my going to Dusseldorf is coming off.”

“You don’t get ’prenticed for nothing,” was the faithless rejoinder.

Christopher joggled the boat and shouted: “You sinner, if you won’t take my word for it I’ll smash you.”

“All right—keep cool, I’m only having you on, Chris. Oughtn’t we to turn now?”

They expended their excitement and emotion in rowing furiously, and landed again at Maidenhead in time for tea. Then Christopher broke the further news to Sam that he was to return with him to Aston House and see CÆsar. He overcame with difficulty Sam’s reiterated objections, and they walked from Paddington, Christopher keeping a strict guard over Sam lest he should escape. 151

But Sam’s objections were more “code” than genuine. He was really anxious to hear the wonderful news confirmed by more responsible lips than Christopher’s—not that he disbelieved his intentions, but he still doubted his powers. He grew very silent, however, as they turned in at the beautiful iron gates of Aston House. He had never managed to really connect his old friend with this wonderful dignified residence that he knew vaguely by sight. He had had dim visions of Christopher slipping in by a side entrance avoiding the eyes of plush-breeched lords-in-waiting. But here was that young gentleman marching calmly in at the big front doors nodding cheerfully to the sober-clad man waiting in the hall who called Christopher “Sir.”

Sam successfully concealed under an expression of solid matter-of-factness the interest and curiosity that consumed him. He looked straight before him and yet saw all round. He accepted the whole calmly, but he wanted to sit down and stare.

Christopher explained that they were to have dinner together in his own sitting-room as soon as they had seen Aymer.

They went through the swing doors down the long corridor leading to Aymer’s room, and Christopher stopped for a moment near a window.

“I never come down here in this sort of light,” he said with a little catch in his voice, “without thinking of the first evening I came. How big it all seemed and how quiet.”

“It is quiet,” said Sam in a subdued whisper.

In another moment they were in Aymer’s room.

“Hullo, CÆsar. Here we are, turned up like bad pennies.”

Christopher pulled Sam across the room to the sofa. Sam would have been not a little surprised had he known that it cost Aymer Aston a great deal more 152 effort to see a new face than it cost him to look at this CÆsar of whom he had heard so much.

The “code” slipped from his mental horizon and left him red and embarrassed, watching Christopher furtively to see what he would do.

“Here’s Sam, CÆsar. I’ve told you all about him and he may just have heard your name mentioned—possibly—” laughed Christopher seating himself on the sofa and indicating a chair to his friend.

Aymer held out his hand.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you, Sam. Sit down, won’t you?”

Sam sat down, his hands on his knees, and tried to find a safe spot on which to focus his eyes.

“Now, isn’t it a jolly room,” began Christopher triumphantly, “didn’t I tell you?”

“It’s big,” said Sam cautiously.

“Christopher, behave yourself. Don’t mind his bad manners, Sam. It’s sheer nervousness on his part, he can’t help it.”

A newspaper was flung dexterously across his face.

“Which gives point to my remark,” continued Aymer, calmly folding it. “Well, have you enjoyed your day? Madness, I call it, the river in March!”

Christopher plunged into an account of their jaunt to which his companion listened in complete bewilderment, hardly recognising the simple pleasures of their holiday in their dress of finished detail and humour.

“Is that a true account?” asked Aymer, catching the tail of a broad grin.

“I didn’t see the water-rat dressing himself, or the girl with the red shoes,” said Sam slowly. “My, what a chap you are, Christopher, to spin a yarn. Wish I could reel it off to mother and the kids like that.”

He found himself in a few minutes discoursing with Aymer on the variety and history of his family. It 153 was not for some minutes or so that the great subject was approached.

“I suppose,” said Aymer at last, “I need not ask if you and Christopher have been discussing his little plan for your future. What do you think of it, Sam?”

Christopher got up and walked to the window. Minute by minute a sense of overwhelming disappointment and shame obliterated the once plausible idea. It was not only an opportunity missed, it was wasted, thrown away. What glory or distinctions, what ambitions could be fulfilled in the narrow confines of a grocer’s shop—a nightmare vision of an interminable vista of red canisters, mahogany counters, biscuit boxes and marble slabs, swam before his eyes. It was no use denying it. It was a cruel disappointment ... and what would CÆsar think?

Meanwhile Sam, in answer to Aymer’s questions, had stumbled out the statement he thought it a rattling fine thing for him and was very much obliged.

“And you know your own mind on the point?” demanded Aymer, watching him closely.

Sam coughed nervously. “Yes, I always knew what I wanted to be. I told him,” with a backward jerk of his head towards Christopher.

This was better than Aymer had expected. A boy with an ambition and a mind of his own was worth assisting.

“Well, what is it. Will you tell me too?”

Sam looked at him out of the corner of his shrewd eyes. “It’s you as is really doing it, sir?”

“What is it?”

“It’s like this,” began Sam, hesitating; “it costs money,—my top ambition; but it’s a paying thing and if anyone would be kind enough to start me on it I’d work off the money in time. I know I could.”

“I’m afraid Christopher hasn’t quite explained,” said Aymer quietly; “it’s not a question of investing 154 money on your industry. I don’t expect him to pay back the cost of starting him in life. You are to start on precisely the same ground.”

Sam got red. “He—he belongs to you—it’s different,” he began.

“What is your ambition?”

“Grocery business. I’ve told him. Ever since I was a bit of a chap that high I’ve wanted it. I never could get a job in a shop, but if I was regularly apprenticed now—if that wasn’t too much?”

Aymer’s glance meandered thoughtfully to the distant Christopher, still staring out of the window; a shadow of a smile rose to his lips.

“Yes, that would not be difficult to manage, Sam. How old are you?”

“Over sixteen, sir. There’s money in grocery, sir. I could pay it back. I’m sure I could.”

Aymer lay still, thinking. “What sort of schooling have you had? Not much? Passed the fifth standard young?”

“But it takes a long time for a ’prentice to work up,” said Sam, watching him eagerly.

“I’m thinking of another way,” said Aymer slowly. “Christopher.”

He rejoined them, standing by the grate and kicking the logs into place. He did not look at Aymer.

“Sam has been telling me of his wishes,” said Aymer. “I think them quite excellent, but I’ve not quite decided on the best way to carry them out. Go away and get your dinner and come back to me afterwards.”

The boys departed, and once in Christopher’s den, the host turned to his guest questioningly.

“Well, what do you think of CÆsar?”

“He’s a stunner, a jolly sight more sensible than you, Chris. But I say,” he added in a grumpy, husky voice, “is he always like that?” 155

“Like what?”

“On a sofa. Lying down.”

“Yes,” said Christopher shortly. He had become almost as sensitive on that point as Aymer himself.

“He must get a bit tired of it. Didn’t he ever walk?”

“Yes, of course. It was a shooting accident. Shut up, Sam, we all hate talking of it.”

The dinner that was served immediately somehow impressed Sam more than any other event of the day. He had occasionally had a meal in a restaurant with Christopher, and once had been in a dining-room at an hotel, but it all seemed different to this intimate, comfortable dinner. The white napery, the shining silver and delicate glass and china, the serving of the simple meal was a revelation of his friend’s life, for Christopher took it all as a matter of course and was unabashed by the presence of the second footman who waited on them.

There was soup, and cutlets in little paper dresses, tomatoes and potatoes that bore no resemblance to the grimy vegetables Sam dispensed daily. Then came strange bird-shaped things, about the size of sparrows which Christopher called chicken and which had no bones in them, cherry tart, with innumerable trifles with it, afterwards something that looked like a solid browny-yellow cake, which gave way to nothing when cut, and tasted of cheese. Finally there was fruit, that was a crowning point, for Sam knew what pears cost that time of year, and said so.

Christopher laughed. “These come from Marden,” he explained. “Marden’s noted for pears; they have storages of different temperatures and keep them back or ripen them as wanted. The fire’s jolly after all, isn’t it?”

He stretched out his long legs to the fender, a very contented young Sybarite for the moment. 156

“I say, Chris,” said Sam abruptly, “I must tell you though you’ll think it pretty low of me. But after you came and told us you were living here with Mr. Aston I used to ask people about him. One day I came round here and ... somehow I never took it in. I knew in a way you lived here, but I didn’t know it was like this....” He stumbled over his words in an embarrassed fashion.

“Like what?” demanded Christopher shortly.

“Well, I thought you was here like a sort of servant—not with them exactly—I see now, I never took it in before—you with your own rooms and walking in at the front door and ordering dinner and them blokes in the hall saying ‘sir’ to you—oh, lor’.”

“I told you they had adopted me,” said the other, frowning and rather red.

“I ought to have taken it in, but I didn’t,” continued Sam humbly, “and then you ask me here—and are going to give me a chance—Oh, lor’,—what’s it all for, I want to know? What does it mean?”

Christopher got up and walked away. Had Sam but known it, his chance in life was in dire peril at that moment. Seldom had Christopher felt so angry and never had he felt so out of touch with his companion. Why on earth couldn’t Sam take his luck without wanting reasons. It was so preposterous, in Christopher’s eyes, to want any. In the old days Sam had been ready to share his scant pennies and toys with his small friend. The offer of a ride in a van from the warehouse where Sartin senior worked would have included both of them or neither. What was the difference? What was the use of having plenty if not to share it with a friend?

To his credit he did not allow Sam to guess his irritation, but suggested a return to CÆsar’s room. 157

“Didn’t it take you an awful long time to get used to all this?” inquired Sam, as he followed him.

“I forget. No, I don’t though. I hated it rather at first, the clothes and collars and having to change and be tidy, and all that, but I soon got used to it. Here we are.”

Mr. Aston was there too now. Sam was duly introduced and behaved with great discretion. He was far less abashed by Mr. Aston than by Aymer, whose physical condition produced a shyness not inherent in the youth.

Mr. Aston talked to him in a friendly gossiping way, then looked across at Aymer with a faint nod.

Aymer unfolded his scheme of carrying out Sam’s ambitions to a fruitful end. He was to go for a year to a commercial school, and after that to be put into a good firm as pupil or ’prentice with a chance of becoming a junior partner with a small capital if he did well.

“If you don’t do well, of course it’s off,” concluded Aymer, rather wearily, “the future is in your hands, not ours: we only supply an opportunity.”

Sam said stolidly he quite understood that: that he was much obliged, and he’d do his best.

“It will be a race between you,” remarked Mr. Aston, looking from one boy to the other, “as to whether you become a full-fledged grocer first or Christopher a full-fledged engineer.”

But late that night when Mr. Aston was bidding Aymer good-night, he remarked as he stood looking down at him:

“You have done a good piece of road-making to-day, old man.”

“No, I haven’t,” retorted Aymer, rather crossly. “I’ve only supplied material for someone else to use if they like.” 158

“Just to please Christopher?”

But Aymer did not answer that. Mr. Aston really needed no answer, for he knew that long ago Sam’s mother had made smooth a very rough piece of road for another woman’s feet, and that woman was Christopher’s mother.