“It’s a good wholesome sign,” I said, “but it’ll come off.  Do you happen to remember a story of Tolstoi’s called Ivan the Fool’?”

("What is a farmer doing quoting Tolstoi!” remarked his countenance—­though he said not a word.)

“In the kingdom of Ivan, you remember,” I said, “it was the rule that whoever had hard places on his hands came to table, but whoever had not must eat what the others left.”

Thus I led him up to the back steps and poured him a basin of hot water—­which I brought myself from the kitchen, Harriet having marvellously and completely disappeared.  We both washed our hands, talking with great good humour.

When we had finished I said: 

“Sit down, friend, if you’ve time, and let’s talk.”

So he sat down on one of the logs of my woodpile:  a solid sort of man, rather warm after his recent activities.  He looked me over with some interest and, I thought, friendliness.

“Why does a man like you,” he asked finally, “waste himself on a little farm back here in the country?”

For a single instant I came nearer to being angry than I have been for a long time. Waste myself!  So we are judged without knowledge.  I had a sudden impulse to demolish him (if I could) with the nearest sarcasms I could lay hand to.  He was so sure of himself!  “Oh well,” I thought, with vainglorious superiority, “he doesn’t know,” So I said: 

“What would you have me be—­a millionnaire?”

He smiled, but with a sort of sincerity.

“You might be,” he said:  “who can tell!”

I laughed outright:  the humour of it struck me as delicious.  Here I had been, ever since I first heard of John Starkweather, rather gloating over him as a poor suffering millionnaire (of course millionnaires are unhappy), and there he sat, ruddy of face and hearty of body, pitying me for a poor unfortunate farmer back here in the country!  Curious, this human nature of ours, isn’t it?  But how infinitely beguiling!

So I sat down beside Mr. Starkweather on the log and crossed my legs.  I felt as though I had set foot in a new country.

“Would you really advise me,” I asked, “to start in to be a millionnaire?”

He chuckled: 

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.  Hitch your wagon to a star; but begin by making a few dollars more a year than you spend.  When I began——­” he stopped short with an amused smile, remembering that I did not know who he was.

“Of course,” I said, “I understand that.”

“A man must begin small”—­he was on pleasant ground—­“and anywhere he likes, a few dollars here, a few there.  He must work hard, he must save, he must be both bold and cautious.  I know a man who began when he was about your age with total assets of ten dollars and a good digestion.  He’s now considered a fairly wealthy man.  He has a home in the city, a place in the country, and he goes to Europe when he likes.  He has so arranged his affairs that young men do most of the work and he draws the dividends—­and all in a little more than twenty years.  I made every single cent—­but as I said, it’s a penny business to start with.  The point is, I like to see young men ambitious.”