as my father said; and I stuck to it gallantly:  all afternoon I continued selling that infernal stock, all afternoon it continued skying.  I suppose I had come (a frail cockle-shell) athwart the hawse of Jay Gould; and, indeed, I think I remember that this vagary in the market proved subsequently to be the first move in a considerable deal.  That evening, at least, the name of H. Loudon Dodd held the first rank in our collegiate gazette, and I and Billson (once more thrown upon the world) were competing for the same clerkship.  The present object takes the present eye.  My disaster, for the moment, was the more conspicuous; and it was I that got the situation.  So you see, even in Muskegon Commercial College, there were lessons to be learned.

For my own part, I cared very little whether I lost or won at a game so random, so complex, and so dull; but it was sorry news to write to my poor father, and I employed all the resources of my eloquence.  I told him (what was the truth) that the successful boys had none of the education; so that if he wished me to learn, he should rejoice at my misfortune.  I went on (not very consistently) to beg him to set me up again, when I would solemnly promise to do a safe business in reliable railroads.  Lastly (becoming somewhat carried away), I assured him I was totally unfit for business, and implored him to take me away from this abominable place, and let me go to Paris to study art.  He answered briefly, gently, and sadly, telling me the vacation was near at hand, when we could talk things over.

When the time came, he met me at the depot, and I was shocked to see him looking older.  He seemed to have no thought but to console me and restore (what he supposed I had lost) my courage.  I must not be down-hearted; many of the best men had made a failure in the beginning.  I told him I had no head for business, and his kind face darkened.  “You must not say that, Loudon,” he replied; “I will never believe my son to be a coward.”

“But I don’t like it,” I pleaded.  “It hasn’t got any interest for me, and art has.  I know I could do more in art,” and I reminded him that a successful painter gains large sums; that a picture of Meissonier’s would sell for many thousand dollars.

“And do you think, Loudon,” he replied, “that a man who can paint a thousand dollar picture has not grit enough to keep his end up in the stock market?  No, sir; this Mason (of whom you speak) or our own American Bierstadt—­if you were to put them down in a wheat pit to-morrow, they would show their mettle.  Come, Loudon, my dear; heaven knows I have no thought but your own good, and I will offer you a bargain.  I start you again next term with ten thousand dollars; show yourself a man, and double it, and then (if you still wish to go to Paris, which I know you won’t) I’ll let you go.  But to let you run away as if you were whipped, is what I am too proud to do.”

My heart leaped at this proposal, and then sank again.  It seemed easier to paint a Meissonier on the spot than to win ten thousand dollars on that mimic stock exchange.  Nor could I help reflecting on the singularity of such a test for a man’s capacity to be a painter.  I ventured even to comment on this.